


Lightbringer

by bloodylullabies



Series: Lightbringer AU [1]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, No Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 96
Words: 216,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodylullabies/pseuds/bloodylullabies
Summary: Neya al’Kane has a bad habit of attracting the attention of the Forsaken, but she usually gets through her ordeals unscathed – only to find herself in even more delicate situations. This story will take you behind the scenes of the infamous Black Tower, and to Shara, beyond the Waste, where ancient prophecies have at last been fulfilled, plunging the land into chaos.





	1. Once upon a dream

She woke up with a start, certain she'd overslept. She saw the candle burning on her bedside table and wondered if she'd forgotten to extinguish it the night before. That seemed impossible; one of her sisters would have noticed and put it out. Feeling hazy, she sat up in the bed.

Where in the Pit of Doom was she? This wasn't her room! Could it even be called a room? The ceiling and the walls seemed to be made of rough stone, just like the floor. It looked as though the room had been carved into a rock. There was a plain washstand on the opposite wall, a small cupboard and a door to the left.

Was this a dream? She'd had odd dreams before, sometimes vivid ones, but nothing quite like this. She pinched her left arm, hard, and bit off a curse when the pain hit her. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to explore her surroundings.

Throwing back the blanket, she got up. She was wearing the same night shift she'd worn when she got in bed the night before. At least no one had undressed her; that was something. She walked to the door, tried the handle. It offered no resistance. Opening the door a crack, she peeked into the next room. It looked like a large cave converted into a living space. She couldn't hear anything; in fact, everything was eerily silent. She opened the door in full. There were shelves upon shelves filled with books on her left and she saw a cosy-looking armchair near the opposite wall, in front of the hearth, which held no fire. She spotted another door on her right. That was all. There was no window; no one was there.

Sighing, she started for the other door and operated the same way as before. As soon as she opened it, a strange noise filled the air, a crashing sound that reminded her of nothing she knew. She heard bird cries, but none that she recognised. She pushed the door wide open and suffered her second shock of the day.

She stood atop a sheer cliff, frighteningly high above the water.

Down below, the water was everywhere; it stretched as far as she could see. She gaped at the immensity of it. Was this what people called the sea? Or was it an ocean? She wasn't sure what the difference was, if there was any. Then she realised that only the door separated her from the precipice and she slammed it shut, panting with fear. She had never been comfortable with heights. Light, what was this place? She was shaking; she could feel the edge of panic settling in her mind. _Burn you, get a hold of yourself!_

Taking her head in her hands, she tried to gather her wits. She needed to think. What could she do? Where to start? There was no way she would attempt to climb the face of the cliff and, even if the water below proved deep enough, the fall was likely to kill her. And even if she did make it safely there, somehow, how far would she have to swim until she found land? Blood and ashes! How _had_ she gotten here?

_The books!_ Of course, they would not teach her how to fly out of here, but she might a least find some clues indicating where she was. With renewed purpose, she turned around and started to move toward the shelves on the opposite wall. That was when she noticed the man sitting in the armchair.

* * *

She stood still, holding her breath. The man sat staring at the fire, his back to her. He didn't move. She was certain he hadn't been there a moment before, no more than the fire had been.

"You're finally awake," she heard him say. He had a deep, quiet voice and a faint accent she couldn't quite place.

"Ah… yes?" She wanted to ask where she was, to demand that he take her home, but before she could speak, the man let out a small chuckle and rose from his seat, turning around slowly to face her.

His eyes were on fire.

That was all she had time to notice. Her heart skipped a few beats. Her knees gave out and she fell to the stone floor.

This wasn't a dream. She was dead. She had died, and this was the Pit of Doom.

The man started to laugh as she slipped out of consciousness.


	2. No escape from reality

She woke up feeling groggy. The same candle was still burning on the bedside table. She'd had a faint hope that she would wake up to find herself in her own bedroom, the one she shared with her sisters. She had dreamed of the man with the eyes of fire, dreamed of falling off the cliff and drowning in the vast sea. She couldn't make sense of anything. Could she have died and not realised it? Death was nothing like she had imagined.

_Light, help me._

She lay there for some time, her mind blank. She couldn't focus on anything. Was there even a point in getting up?

She was thirsty. How could she be thirsty if she was dead? Sighing, she got up, stretching her arms. She took a peek into the other room. The man was nowhere in sight. Was he even a man? Shaking her head, she went in search of a drink.

"Looking for something, little girl?"

Jumping a foot into the air, she turned in the direction the voice had come from. He was sitting on her bed. How did he get there? She squeezed her eyes shut. She would  _not_  pass out again. Inhaling deeply, she opened her eyes once more. The man was now standing right in front of her. He was tall, taller than most people. He wore clothes of unrelieved black. Slowly, she craned her head to look him in the… well, in the place where his eyes should be. "As a matter of fact, I am. Could I have some water, please? Sir?" she asked politely. It never hurt to be polite, her mother always said.

He grinned at her. This time she noticed the flames dancing in his mouth as well as in his eyes.  _Blood and flaming ashes_ , she thought with a shudder. "Sir." He shook his head, obviously amused. "So polite. You are a well-trained pet. What is your name, little pet?"

She wanted to swallow before answering, but her mouth was too dry. She cleared her throat instead. "I'm Neya," she replied unsteadily. She was tempted to ask him the same question, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She was afraid of the answer.

"Neya," he repeated. He seemed to consider it for a moment, examining her, head cocked slightly to the side. She took the opportunity to study the rest of his face. He appeared to be in his middle years, a good-looking man with short dark hair and a straight nose. He was clean-shaven. All in all, he looked perfectly normal, if one could disregard the fire burning in his eyes and mouth. "Water is so bland. We'll have some wine instead. Do you like wine, little pet?"

"Sure. I'm just really thirsty." She didn't add 'sir' this time. It seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

He held out his hand toward the larger room. "This way." She couldn't bring herself to put her back to him, so she simply took a step back. He chuckled. "Fear not. I have no intention of harming you."

"Then what are your intentions?" she blurted out. "Why am I here? What is this place? Who are you?" Blood and ashes! She bit her lip to quell the flow of questions.

His laughter was a rich cackle. It sounded a bit unhinged. "You will be keeping the place clean," he announced simply, ignoring her other questions.

She blinked at him in astonishment. He couldn't be serious. "Did you just  _abduct_  me so I could be your  _housemaid_?" she asked in a strangled voice.

He'd gotten a bottle of wine from somewhere. As she watched, the cork came out. He hadn't even touched the flaming thing.

Suddenly, she understood. She wasn't dead after all.  _He can channel. Light help me, he's a man who can channel._

* * *

The man hadn't bothered to answer her questions before leaving. He'd simply vanished into thin air, confirming her fear.

He'd poured her a glass of wine and told her where to find the kitchen – there was a hidden door behind one of the bookshelves. She had no idea  _why_  the kitchen was concealed behind the shelf, but amidst everything else, it seemed an insignificant detail. Inside, she'd found a stove, kitchen supplies and a barrel of water.

He had been gone for days now. She wasn't sure how many days exactly. As soon as she'd been certain he was gone, she made herself open the door leading outside again. She had to make sure there was no way to escape. Gingerly, she'd leaned outside as much as she dared to inspect the cliff, but it appeared to lead as far upward as it did downward. She could never climb it, even if she wasn't terrified of heights. Rock and water, and nothing else.

The only noises were the sound of the waves crashing at the base of the cliff and the strident cries of those strange white birds. For a while she simply stood staring at the sea, lost in thought, until she caught sight of an enormous shadow below the surface. At first she assumed it was a large school of fish – she knew very little of sea animals – but then she realised that it was in fact one colossal creature as it had come jumping out of the water, a dark, gigantic monster that made her stare in awe and tremble with fear at the same time. Light! Suddenly she was glad for the distance between her and the water below. She soon decided she'd spent enough time uselessly gazing outside and shut the door.

She was hungry now, and decided she might as well eat. She would probably die here, but it wouldn't be out of starvation. She made a simple broth and ate it with a chunk of bread and a piece of mouldy cheese.

The man said he wanted her to keep the place clean – she still couldn't believe the casualness with which he'd said it, as if it were a perfectly normal request – but there was no broom or any other cleaning implement to be found, so she spent most of her time perusing the volumes stacked on the shelves. Most of them were written in what she assumed was the Old Tongue. The few that she could read, those who were written in the Common Tongue, were all about history: chronicles retracing the reign of Arthur Hawkwing, biographies of long-dead kings and queens, the annals of the White Tower from its founding, a brief account on the Breaking. She read them all. What else could she do? She still hoped to find a clue as to where she was and why she was there, but came upon nothing obvious.

It had been weeks now, and the man hadn't come back yet. The food supplies replenished themselves overnight, she had no idea how. The fire in the hearth was constantly roaring, although the room temperature never seemed to alter; it was always pleasantly warm. After she'd finished the last book, she unearthed several old volumes that appeared to be lexicons, each apparently dating from a different era. Armed with that, she settled to decipher the books written in the Old Tongue.

How had her abductor come by these books? Some of them – most of them, really – had to be worth more than her parents' farm. She was working on the table of contents of an ancient volume which title she hadn't been able to translate when the man finally came back. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the ever-burning candle providing just enough light to read by, when he suddenly materialised in the doorway, startling her. Reflexively, she tried to hide the book behind her back. He grinned at her as the old book flew out of her hand toward him and promptly burst out with laughter when he saw the cover. "Trying to steal my secret recipes, are you, pet?" Recipes? Was this a cookery book?  _Of all the books stacked on the shelves, I had to pick that one_ , she thought with some irritation. The man looked up at her, his mirth gone as abruptly as it came. "Is there something to eat?"

Her eyes widened in outrage. The man had been gone for weeks and he simply expected there to be food waiting for him when he popped up without warning? She considered giving him a piece of her mind, but took a slow, calming breath instead. Luckily – for him – she had made some stew. "The pot is on the stove. Help yourself," she said.

"No, you will bring it to me at the table," he replied in a dangerous tone. Before she could say anything, he turned around and walked into the other room.  _Table? There is no table!_

Well, there was one now. She watched him settle down on a carved wooden chair that hadn't been there either just a moment before. Shaking her head and cursing under her breath, she went into the kitchen to fix him a bowl.

"There's dust everywhere. I believe I told you to keep the place clean, girl," he said when she came back.

"Why, I'd be happy too. I don't suppose you have a broom hidden somewhere on your person?" she asked sarcastically. She regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. The book he'd set on the table flew across the room and landed in the fire, where it was consumed almost instantly.

The man's eyes blazed. "You will watch your tone around me, girl." His voice was barely a whisper.

She swallowed hard. "But there is nothing for me to clean with," she told him meekly. He didn't answer, and started to eat without looking at her. It was as if she'd stopped existing. She waited for him to finish, standing still, not daring to move.

"I'll get you what you need," he finally said when he was done. A second later, he stood up and vanished.

She stood gaping at the chair for a moment. He'd only just come back! Why had he even bothered, if he was going to leave again minutes later? Surely he had other ways of acquiring food. This made no sense. That particular thought seemed to cross her mind at least twenty times a day, so she set it aside.

Sighing, she cleared the table. As she entered the kitchen, she noticed a broom and duster in a corner. Her laughter had a faint hysterical note to it as she rolled her sleeves up. She had some cleaning to do.


	3. Hope you guess my name

Even translating book titles from the Old Tongue was frustrating, gruelling work. Some words weren't mentioned in the lexicons, quite a lot of them. Others seemed to have more than one meaning, sometimes as many as four or five, none of them related in any way. Whenever she found something potentially interesting, she started by analysing the table of contents before settling to translate a few sentences from the book proper.

Most of what she'd uncovered up to this point held little interest. There were technical books recounting the various uses for weaves made by  _saidin_ and  _saidar_ and catalogues filled with descriptions of something called  _ter'angreal_  that she found no translation for; biographies of obscure characters; atlases and maps of lands she had never heard of. And then she'd found something very different, stashed behind yet another shelf, in a small alcove holding neatly lined-up books: the complete collection of Elan Morin Tedronai's published works.

At first she hadn't understood. Why would the man hide this particular set, as if it was more important than the other books? She'd tried to decipher the titles, but they were complex. She thought one was called  _Reality and the Absence of Meaning_ , and another  _The Dismantling of Reason_ or maybe  _The_   _Disassembly_   _of Reason_. All in all, the translated titles were about as much help as they had been in the Old Tongue. She'd put them aside for the time being, carefully placing them back where she'd found them and hoping he wouldn't notice.

It had all clicked together when she'd re-read the thin leather-backed copy of  _A Brief Account of the Breaking_. ' _Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, once known as Elan Morin Tedronai…_ '

Eyes fixed on the page, she felt a stab of terror so strong she thought she might have fainted, had she not been lying in bed. It was impossible.  _The Dark One and all of the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul_ , she recited, a litany that everyone knew.

And yet here she was, a captive in a cave carved in the side of a rock, or mountain, lost in the middle of the sea, detained by a man who could channel and whose eyes and mouth blazed fire. It almost made sense, if anything could still be said to make sense. It didn't explain why she was here, but at least she knew who she was dealing with. She would have been relieved, if she hadn't been quite so terrified.

* * *

He was back again. How long had it been this time? He seemed to keep away longer every time. She thought she'd been here for four months already, maybe five. This was only the fourth time she'd seen him in that stretch of time. After the day he'd eaten here for the first time, he'd been gone at least three weeks. Then he'd appeared in the middle of the night, asking for food again. She'd gone back to bed after serving him without a word. He hadn't said anything else and had been gone when she woke up the next morning. The third time, he arrived after she'd just started cooking her meal for the day. When she told him that he would have to wait, he rolled his eyes and left as abruptly as he had come.

He had been gone a month now, and she was worried he wouldn't come back at all. Not that it changed anything whether he was there or not, but he was her only way out of here. If anything happened to him, she would die here alone, forgotten. She hadn't yet managed to come up with a satisfactory idea on how to escape this wretched place, but she was absolutely certain that her best chance lay with him. She had to become closer to him, somehow. How she was going to accomplish that with him gone pretty much all of the time remained a mystery, though.

Well, he was here now. She'd awoken to find him sitting at the table, studying a map. He hadn't moved or said anything when she'd walked into the room. Not sure what to do, she'd settled to fix them both some breakfast. She placed the tray on the table and sat in front of him. The second chair hadn't been there the previous day, but she was past wondering about such trifles. They ate in silence for a while. He spoke suddenly, as if noticing her just then. "There you are. I was wondering whether you were still alive."

_Against all odds, I am_ , she thought bitterly. A dozen sarcastic replies came to her, but she knew better than to utter them aloud. She made her tone as neutral as she could. "I was wondering the same thing about you." She itched to ask where he'd been, what he was doing that justified his staying out there for so long. What was happening in the world? She'd reflected that, if he truly was who she thought he was, it could mean that the world was under a greater threat than it knew. Though surely, if the Dark One were loose, she would know. Wouldn't she?

He gave her a twisted smile. "Alive as always. You've been taking good care of the place, it seems."

"Not much else to do. I'm not too keen on climbing or swimming," she said with a small shrug.

He chuckled wryly. "Surely you have found some books to your liking in this jumble," he said, gesturing toward the bookshelves.

Was this a trick question? Did he know she knew?  _Blood and ashes, calm down. He's just making conversation._  "I have indeed. I'm becoming increasingly fluent in the Old Tongue," she told him casually.

"Are you now?" he said with a smirk. He added something in the Old Tongue, speaking too fast for her to understand more than a couple of words. One of those sounded a lot like the word for 'ignorant'. To be fair, she had never heard the language spoken aloud before. He chuckled again when he saw the look on her face, shaking his head. "You know nothing, pet."

_I know more than you think, Betrayer of Hope_. She gave him a sweet smile. "Then teach me."

He stared at her, face impassive. "Don't you think I have better things to do than try to instil ancient knowledge in you, pet?"

"I don't know. Do you?" She could have slapped herself. She was supposed to make him open up to her, not enrage him!

To her surprise, he laughed. As usual, the sound came out as a slightly deranged cackle. It was incredible how quickly his mood could turn. He sounded lucid enough when he talked, but it seemed clear to her that the madness inherent to channeling  _saidin_  was deeply rooted in him. "I suppose it's a matter of opinion," he replied thoughtfully. "I like to think that what I do is of the utmost importance, but what you and I find important are certainly two different matters entirely." He narrowed his fiery eyes at her. "Why do you want to learn the Old Tongue? Do you think it will somehow allow you to escape this place?" He sounded genuinely curious, as if he couldn't believe she could be so dim.

"No, but it will help me bear the crushing weight of boredom," she replied as nonchalantly as she could.

"Indeed. Well, I'm afraid you will have to bear it a little while longer, pet. The chase is coming to an end, I can feel it, but until then I must stay focused on the prey," he told her, eyes blazing.

She had no idea what he was talking about. She didn't think he would answer if she asked, however, so she let it go. "Afterward, then, when your… task… is completed. Unless you're planning on releasing me once you're done?" she added hopefully.

"Little pet, when my task is completed, I promise you, you won't be burdened by anything ever again. None of us will be," he said softly.

On that sunny note, he stood up and vanished once more.


	4. And it burns, burns, burns

" _When my task is completed, I promise you, you won't be burdened by anything ever again. None of us will be."_

She had pondered his last words for a long time that day. However, no matter which way she turned them, it seemed to her that this mysterious task of his led to her inevitable death, and possibly that of the entire world. But what could she possibly do about it?

It was not a pleasant thought and she had trouble sleeping that night – more than usual, in any case. Dreams, or rather nightmares, kept intruding her rest. In some of them, Ishamael destroyed her village, her home, and she watched as her family burned, trapped inside the house. Of course, that scene prompted her oldest nightmare to return, the one she thought she had buried long ago. More than once, she woke up shaking, drenched in sweat, until she finally gave up and decided to fix herself a cup of tea.

She picked up a volume at random to keep her company. There was a kind of painting on the cover of this one, representing a good-looking man in his middle years, his brown hair lightly streaked with white. This time she didn't need the lexicons to understand the title. In fact, she used them less and less as she advanced through the shelves of books. She really was becoming fluent in the language, in its written form at least. The book was called  _Lews Therin Telamon: an Autobiography_.

So this was the man they had called the Dragon, the Aes Sedai who had murdered his entire family after the Dark One tainted  _saidin_. She hadn't known there were any images of him left in the world. After all, he had killed himself over three thousand years ago. Then again, Ishamael himself supposedly was bound in Shayol Ghul.

She had read three chapters of the book when Ishamael came back. She saw movement in the corner of her eye and turned in that direction, only to find him lying on the floor. At least she thought it was him. All she could see were the charred remains of what might have been a tall man. Stunned, she hesitated before approaching the body. She felt a wave of panic seize her as she stumbled toward it.  _Please, Light, don't let it be him. He can't be dead. I don't want to die here!_ She fell to her knees beside the burnt corpse. Even this close, she couldn't be sure whether it was him. The man's clothes seemed to have melted into his skin. His death must have been atrociously painful.

Suddenly, the corpse moved. She almost fell backward when it grabbed her arm. It uttered a single word before loosening its grip, a bare whisper: " _Pet_."

_Blood and flaming ashes!_  She was dimly aware that she was crying. She was becoming hysterical. The thought made her laugh. That was it; she was dead. Her last faint hope of getting out of here had just been reduced to ashes. She laughed even harder.

She'd gone numb at some point, or maybe she'd passed out. She couldn't remember how long she'd been sitting there, staring at the corpse; it might have been a second or a year. She became aware that she was clutching his arm, but she couldn't make herself let go. A spell of despair took her, quickly replaced by anger, and she started to shake him, as if it would somehow revive him. She heard someone shout, then realised the sound was coming from her. Suddenly, she felt warmth envelop her. A sentiment of peace mingled with joy filled her. She closed her eyes, drinking it all in.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, Ishamael sat staring at her, looking blank. There were no marks on him, no evidence that he'd suffered any kind of injury, yet he looked… different. She couldn't have said what it was exactly.

She was in her bed. She hadn't realised she'd fallen asleep. Had she been dreaming? She wanted to touch him, to make sure he was really there, but she dared not. She met his eyes and then she understood why he looked different. His eyes weren't pits of flames anymore. He had brown eyes, a very dark brown, almost black. He looked jarringly human. The thought made her smile, and that caused him to frown. She heard him clear his throat roughly. "Are you… alright?" He sounded oddly hesitant.

She sat up to face him. "I feel fine. Thank you for asking," she replied quietly. "What happened?" she asked after a brief hesitation.

He shook his head, obviously confused. "I'm not sure. I almost had him. And then he…" He interrupted his halting speech for a moment then went on in a barely audible voice. "I could smell my skin roasting. I Travelled. I must have. I don't know what happened. I woke up to find you lying on top of me in the other room. I was… like this. You were unconscious. I put you in bed. That was hours ago." He trailed off, frowning at nothing in particular.

Travelled? Who had he almost had? If she asked him now, when he was so clearly dazed, maybe he would answer.

Instead she asked, "Are  _you_  alright?"

Focusing his gaze back on her, he nodded slowly. "It would appear so." He hesitated again. "When did you learn to channel, pet?"


	5. I'm friends with the monster

She started to open her mouth to argue, to deny it. But it made sense. In fact, it was the only explanation that made sense. He couldn't possibly have saved himself, not in his condition. And that feeling she'd had right before she passed out… Yes, it made sense, there was no denying it. But how had she done it? What _had_ she done, exactly? Shaking her head slowly, she looked him in the eyes. His absurdly human eyes. "I've never channeled before in my life. I swear," she added when he raised his eyebrow sceptically. "I don't know what I did or how it happened. I just know I really, really didn't want you to be dead."

He was quiet for a long time, as if considering her words. "Of course you didn't," he finally said. "What would you do without me?" he went on with a sneer. "You will have to be careful. You could have burned yourself out. As it were, you're lucky you didn't get both of us killed."

"You were already dying!" she sputtered indignantly. The nerve of the man! "Without me, you would be dead," she went on in a milder tone. "You might want to remember that, next time you plan on getting yourself burnt to a crisp."

He shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "That won't happen again. I never make the same mistake twice," he said. "I don't see why I should thank you. You saved me because you know perfectly well I'm the only reason you are still alive."

"You're also the reason why I'm here in the first place," she retorted sourly, "and I still don't know _why_ I'm here."

"Fate, pet. Fate brought you to me, or rather, it brought _me_ to _you_ ," he replied. "And now I know why," he murmured, so low she didn't think she had been meant to hear. _Fate_ , she thought bitterly. What kind of answer was that?

He cleared his throat once more. "You will not attempt to channel again. It is too dangerous, and I can't provide any tutoring in this particular area." He got up abruptly. "You should rest. The amount of Power you used to Heal me must have depleted you almost entirely. You will feel weak for a while yet, and you will be ill, if this was truly the first time you channeled."

He was gone before she had time to reply.

* * *

Just as Ishamael had predicted, she was ill soon afterward, with a fever like none she'd ever experienced before. She slept for the better part of two days, to the best of her estimation, waking up occasionally to take a sip of water from the goblet he'd left on the bedside table.

Eventually, the fever receded, and she decided she had to get up. She was ravenously hungry. She ate almost everything she could eat without having to cook it first then set to make a proper meal. Her hunger had faded somewhat, but it would come back soon enough, she was sure. She hadn't eaten in days.

She didn't expect Ishamael to come back anytime soon, so she decided to give his books a try, now that she was more familiar with the Old Tongue. She wanted to know the man, to understand how he thought. She gave up after chapter three of _Reality and the Absence of Meaning_. Had the man _ever_ been sane? None of it made sense to her. Maybe she was simply too dense to grasp it all. Either way, she had to think of something else to get closer to him. If only he stayed here for longer than minutes at a time! Preferably without being on the brink of death.

Out of nowhere, she remembered that he mentioned she'd been unconscious for hours after Healing him. Surely he hadn't actually sat there the whole time, watching her? The thought made her slightly uncomfortable. Giving herself a shake, she put the book back in the hidden alcove. The stew would be ready. She was hungry again.

When she came back from the kitchen with her steaming bowl, Ishamael was sitting in front of the fire. Frowning at his back, she decided to ignore him for the time being and settled at the table. He didn't speak, so she ate in silence then went back to the kitchen for a second bowl.

He joined her in the kitchen and filled a bowl for himself, then followed her in the other room, sitting across from her. He ate with as much enthusiasm as she'd ever seen from him. He usually seemed to consider eating a necessary annoyance. When he was done he asked her if he could finish her bowl (she'd finally gotten her fill) and she nodded once, staring at him in astonishment as he gulped down the remaining scraps of her meal. "Healing takes a lot of energy out of the person being Healed," he explained when he saw the look on her face. "Using the Power drains the channeler as well, of course, all the more considering the tremendous amount you must have applied on me."

She had to keep him talking, to make him stay here. She did not lack questions, but she was afraid he would get annoyed, or even angry, if she pestered him with them. She had to take it easy. "Do you want some more?" That seemed safe enough.

He shook his head. "Not now." He got up, and for a moment she was afraid he would disappear again, but he simply settled back in the armchair.

Relief flowed through her. "Do you want some wine?" No reply. She decided to pour them both a goblet. She brought one to him and he took it without a word. She took one of the chairs and moved it near the fire to settle next to him. She was afraid to say anything, afraid he might vanish again.

She was still wondering what to say when he spoke. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," she answered, a bit nervously. Silence fell once more. "What does it mean, to burn yourself out?" she finally asked.

"You really don't know anything, do you?" he said with a sigh. "To be burned out is to be severed from the One Power by accident," he explained.

"Oh. Is that lethal, then?" Shaking his head in disbelief, he chuckled darkly, but he didn't answer. _Blood and ashes_. She had to change the subject. "What's a piano?" She wasn't sure what prompted that particular question. She had seen that word in Lews Therin's autobiography and couldn't find its meaning anywhere.

He looked at her, startled. "Where did you learn that word? Are you really reading the books in the Old Tongue?" he asked her incredulously, eyes wide.

"Well, yes. What else am I supposed to do? Anyway," she went on before he could reply, "I saw the word, but there wasn't much context, and it wasn't in the lexicons."

He was still staring at her and didn't answer right away. "It's a musical instrument," he finally let on. "From the Age of Legends," he added, although that much, at least, she had already figured out. He rose suddenly. "It's easier if I show you." He vanished.

He was back a moment later. As he called to her, she noticed that there was now a massive contraption standing against the opposite wall. It looked like a large desk with little black and white pieces in the front, and a narrow seat. She stared at it in amazement. How did he get that thing here? He grinned at her, apparently pleased by her stunned reaction. He sat down on the seat and began to play.

She wasn't sure how long he played. She was still sitting on the chair, captivated, her goblet of wine forgotten in her hand. When the music died down, she felt almost… hollow. It was as if she'd just awoken from a dream. She thought she could have listened to him forever.

He twisted on his seat to look at her. "Does that answer your question?" he asked smugly. His words rang loudly in the sudden silence. She nodded slowly, mutely. He walked back to the armchair.

She had a thousand more questions about the Age of Legends and he didn't seem to mind answering them now. She asked everything that came to her, but after a while he didn't need any prompting. He told her about the Aes Sedai of old, about the Treesingers and the Da'shain Aiel, the _chora_ trees, the skyscrapers of Paaran Disen, the Collam Daan and the Sharom. She took it all in. Ishamael looked lost in the past, lost in memories.

She had finally found a way to breach him.


	6. I'm a weapon in human form

_Parting The Silk. The Dove Takes Flight. The Swallow Rides The Air._

Dancing from form to form, she moved around the room armed with her broom. She realised how ridiculous she must look, but being stranded in a cave in the middle of the sea did have its perks.

_Water Flows Downhill. The River Undercuts The Bank. The Boar Rushes Downhill._

"What are you doing?" Ishamael asked her curiously, the smile obvious in his voice.

Startled, she almost threw the broom at him. "Bloody and ashes! My heart just skipped a couple of beats," she panted at him, dropping her makeshift weapon. "Do you _have_ to appear like that without any sort of warning?" she asked him petulantly.

He chuckled softly. "Practicing sword forms with a broom. How… quaint."

"Well, I don't see any swords lying around," she said defensively. "Anyway, I'm just trying to pass the time. You've been gone for a while," she noted.

He studied her for a moment, considering. "Where did you learn this, pet? From a book?"

She nodded sharply, still annoyed at having been so rudely interrupted. And frightened out of her wits. "Yes, one of the older volumes with no cover. There were some images inside, and brief explanations to describe the forms." She shrugged lightly. "Although, truth be told, I don't understand why people use sword forms at all."

"What do you mean?" he asked, clearly confused.

"Well, if I'm fighting for my life, I would rather my opponent didn't know what I'm about to do. What I mean, I suppose, is that I thought it would be best to be unpredictable, to do whatever the other person doesn't expect, instead of countering each move with the most adequate form."

"You're a woman. You wouldn't understand. A duel is not just about winning. It's about tactics and strategy, about anticipating your enemy's moves and outsmarting him. It's also about being honourable. It used to be, anyway."

"You're right, I don't understand. Honestly, I don't care how I do it, as long as I get away with my life. What good is honour, if you're dead?"

"And that's exactly why there are so few female Blademasters," he stated with a smirk. Arguing with him was pointless. He always had the last word. She was about to shrug it off and pick up the broom when he went on. "In any case, you won't learn anything, armed with that," he pointed out. Before she had time to reply, he vanished. Rolling her eyes, she took a sip of water. Blasted man! She managed with what she had.

He came back a minute later, holding two swords. Smoothly, he presented her with the shortest one. "Try this," he told her. "If you're going to learn, you might as well get used to a decent weapon, to provide adequate balance," he went on. "This is a _yatagan_."

It was a beautiful artefact, she had to admit. The hilt was rather plain, but the blade was single-edged and slightly curved, and it shone with a bright violet-blue hue. "It's cute," she told him, knowing it would annoy him.

It did. "Cute?" he scoffed. "It's a blade, girl, not a puppy. It's designed to kill people. How do you get 'cute' from that?"

"I think it's the colour," she told him with a grin.

He shook his head in irritation. "It's Power-wrought. It was enhanced by both _saidar_ and _saidin_ during the War of Power. The Talent used to create such weapons was lost long ago, unfortunately. It was called 'Aligning the Matrix'. It was used at an atomic level to–"

"You've lost me," she interrupted smoothly. _Matrix?_ _Atomic?_ _What does that even mean?_

He sighed deeply. "I forget how ignorant you are of these things." He waved dismissively. "It matters not. This weapon was named _Tsorovan_ – storm, lightning bolt – for the colour of its blade as well as the speed with which it can be handled. As you've no doubt noticed, it's very light. I believe it was intended for a woman." He positioned himself in front of her. "Go on. Attack me," he said, gesturing with his blade.

She stared at him incredulously. "Attack you? Are you insane? I've only ever whirled around the room with a broom, I'm no match for you!" she said with a mounting certainty that he was making fun of her.

"Of course I'm insane. Surely you know this by now," he stated flatly. "That's hardly the point. You need an opponent if you're to learn anything."

"But–"

"Trust your instincts. Training is only part of what makes a true Blademaster. You seem to have decent reflexes. Now you have a decent weapon. Go on," he repeated, shifting his feet slightly, positioning himself.

Inhaling deeply, she focused on him. _Striking The Spark._ It seemed fitting, considering the name of the blade.

They went on for some time, Ishamael spending most of it easily deflecting her attacks. Once in a while he called out to her, giving advice. At one point, in the beginning, he told her to stop altogether to reposition her grip on the hilt of her sword. He was a good teacher, patient and constructively critical.

Finally she raised a hand, pleading for a break. She was panting hard, sweat trickling down her back and covering her face. "Enough, you're killing me," she said haltingly, half-sitting, half-falling down in a chair.

He wasn't sweating, of course. He looked as pristine as ever in his close-fitting clothes of unrelieved black. _Burn him_ , she thought. She winced. _No, not that. Light help me, never again_. "Tired already, pet?" he asked with a smug grin. "Youth is wasted on the young."

She sighed dramatically. "May I remind you that you've had three thousand years of training, whereas I just started a few weeks ago? Not to mention that I learned all this from a book. And practiced with a broom," she finished wryly.

This time he let out a hearty laugh. "I'm just teasing, pet. You're not half-bad, for an uncouth primitive of this Age," he added, eyes twinkling. "With a little practice, _proper_ practice, you may even become decent."

"Does that mean you're going to keep practicing with me?" she asked hopefully. She wasn't sure what good it would do – she would never become a match for him – but at least it would keep him occupied. And what time he spent doing that was time he wasn't spending on destroying the world - or whatever it was he was doing.

"I might. A little exercise never hurt anyone," he replied thoughtfully. "You would have to keep training even when I'm not around, however, if only to improve your stamina," he added with a grin.


	7. Betrayal never comes from an enemy

With a snap, she closed the book she'd been reading. There was a painting – a photograph, he had called it – of a man on the cover. He was stunningly handsome, with a hooked nose and jet black hair. She had some questions. She always had.

"Elan?" she began, then froze when she realised what she'd said. What she'd called him. She had started thinking of him as Elan instead of Ishamael a few weeks ago, for reasons unclear to her. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling he would not like it. She awaited the explosion, half-expecting his eyes to burst into flames like they used to.

He simply turned his head toward her, looking expectant and mildly inquisitive. When she didn't say anything, he prompted her softly. "Yes?"

"I…" she began again, her voice coming out as a croak. She cleared her throat. "I've just finished this biography about Dem… about Barid Bel Medar. The one written by Cassia Terrid Allman?" She had almost called him Demandred, but Elan always referred to the other Forsaken by their former names, although he usually used only their first names, something that had been considered offensive, or rude at the very least, during the Age of Legends. Demandred was an exception in that regard. She assumed that Elan had more respect for him than for the others. Oddly enough, he usually granted the Kinslayer the same courtesy.

"That's the only one there is." He closed his own book, looking interested now. "What about it?"

"There's something I don't quite understand. You said that Barid Bel went over to the Shadow because he was jealous of Lews Therin, because he envied him and resented him for being the most acclaimed man of the Age of Legends." He nodded. "But I've read both his biography and Lews Therin's…"

"Lews Therin's was actually an autobiography. Not quite the same thing," he cut in.

"Right. But how could Barid Bel be jealous of Lews Therin? I can't pretend to understand half the things either of them accomplished, but it seems to me that Barid Bel did at least as well as Lews Therin. Didn't he?" She was understating a little. She hadn't understood a quarter of all those accomplishments; the technical details were far beyond her comprehension.

"They both achieved great things, even by the standards of our Age. From my point of view, Barid Bel's discoveries largely overshadowed that of Lews Therin's, but the Dragon possessed something Barid Bel didn't." He paused, considering. "In the end, it all came down to this: Lews Therin was simply more likable. He was obsessed by fame, and spurred by the knowledge that people liked him, admired him. He dedicated a major part of his time promoting his works and socialising, making sure all the right people had heard about his latest discoveries and publications. Barid Bel never bothered with these trifles. The only thing he cared about was making progress. He was always learning, always advancing. As a result, he rarely made a public appearance. He was a quite capable speaker, and he gladly gave lectures at the University, but he simply never took time to appear at mere social events. That's how Lews Therin became the most acclaimed man of the Age. He was so genial, he made people laugh so easily. Barid Bel didn't have that particular skill, although he used to have a sense of humour, back in those days." He paused once more. His gaze had drifted off; he was clearly lost in the past.

"But why was the other man never mentioned in his rival's biography? I thought they were supposed to be arch-nemeses or something." She'd read that somewhere, in another book, a much more recent publication, written by some scholar from the White Tower. A Brown, most likely.

"You do know that channelers lived to be hundreds of years in those days." She nodded. She still couldn't quite grasp it, but she knew. "They could hardly spend all that time actively competing against each other. In any case, it only became apparent when Barid Bel betrayed the Light, and I don't think Lews Therin ever truly thought of him as a rival. This enmity was Barid Bel's creation. But you want to know why he hated Lews Therin, I suppose?"

She nodded again. "I just can't fathom how you could possibly hate someone with such burning passion that you'd decide to join the Shadow. It doesn't make any sense, unless you used to be very close to them and something happened to change that."

"Such a smart little pet." He would never stop calling her that, would he? "They practically grew up together," he went on. "Both their families had estates in the same area. They had no siblings and their parents still had active careers. They must have been like brothers in their youth." He shrugged lightly. "Barid Bel never mentioned those early days, not even to me. I'm just building on what I've heard, and what I know. They both passed the test for channelers at an early age and were accepted at the Collam Daan a year before anyone else usually was. They were top of their class, as you'd expect, graduating with the highest honours. They were famous before they'd even accomplished anything of import. I used to teach at the Collam Daan, did you know that?"

She grinned at him. "Of course. I read your biography, too. One of them, anyway."

"They were always challenging each other, competing in every contest, both trying to achieve the best grades. It was all good-natured at the time. They usually ended up in a tie anyway. But soon after they graduated, a position opened to become the new professor in some obscure subject I won't bother to describe to you. It happened to be one of Barid Bel's favourite subjects, one in which he excelled, and he applied right away."

"But Lews Therin wanted to compete for that as well and ended up obtaining the position somehow," she finished for him.

He nodded gravely. "I'd never seen Barid Bel so furious. He was usually very quiet, and always in control. Lews Therin was the hot-tempered one. They almost came to blows over this, but I broke them apart before anyone got injured. Barid Bel left without another word, and no one saw him again for the next sixty years."

" _Sixty_ _years_? There was nothing about that in his biography!" she exclaimed.

"Allman's work focuses on his achievements. At his request, his early years were not to be mentioned. He was always very private. Anyway, that was when he gathered the material for his first books. He travelled around the world, to forgotten ruins and abandoned vestiges of past civilisations. He spent time with locals in the remotest parts of the earth, learned their language, their customs. He came back a different person. He then spent a decade writing and publishing books, all acclaimed works. But Lews Therin was already a renowned author, and his publications sold like hot cakes. Barid Bel's books never quite matched his old friend's in terms of critical acclaim or sales. Although he did have a much better style. Have you read anything by him?" he asked her.

"I… tried," she admitted. She'd opened some of Demandred's books, but never made it past the first chapters. She simply couldn't make sense of them; they were too complex for her, too technical. She'd decided he was either a genius or a madman – or both; the two didn't seem mutually exclusive – much like Elan himself.

"Barid Bel used to write poetry as well, you know," Elan went on, startling her out of her thoughts. Poetry, written by _Demandred_? What a strange concept. Elan smiled, correctly interpreting the slight frown on her face. "He was quite good, actually." His gaze had taken on that distant look once more. He gave himself a small shake. "I think I managed to salvage some of his poems. I'll try to find them. It's nothing like his other books, or mine. It's perfectly intelligible, I assure you." He gave her a small grin. So he knew she'd found his own publications… and failed to read them. He hadn't even been there! The man was so irritating sometimes.

She decided to put the conversation back on tracks. "What happened afterwards? Something else must have happened to make him hate Lews Therin so much. It can't have been only about that position he didn't get."

"Of course not. But it wasn't any specific event. Rather, there were several small occurrences that accumulated and culminated when Lews Therin was put in charge of the armies of the Light, when it was clear that Barid Bel would have made a much better choice."

"Maybe it wasn't obvious at the time. Besides, Lews Therin was hardly incapable, wasn't he?" she asked.

"It should have been obvious. If not for all his connections, Lews Therin wouldn't have made it so high." He snorted. "If not for all his connections, he wouldn't have gone very far at all."

"What about Ilyena?" she wanted to know.

Elan looked at her, frowning. "What about her?"

"She was Lews Therin's wife and the most beautiful woman in the world." Everyone who'd ever written about Ilyena Sunhair seemed to agree on that point. "Didn't that trigger Barid Bel in some way? Wasn't he jealous? I should think a woman would be a good reason to hate someone so passionately."

Elan laughed, startling her once more. "Ilyena. She _was_ beautiful, I suppose, although I don't know whether or not she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I never paid much attention to such trivial matters." He looked at her, smiling thoughtfully. "Besides, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder." She met his eyes, frowning, wondering where that particular comment had come from. He didn't clarify his thought, instead continuing his story. "She was also quite clever, incredibly kind, patient and a wonderful hostess besides. But for all that, I always thought her a bit… dull. She seemed to live through her husband, rarely voiced any original ideas. She could gossip and converse about a wide array of subjects, but most of them were trivial. Politics, fashion, oenology… She loved to talk about children and education. That was her choice of career, if you didn't know already." She shook her head. She hadn't known; in fact, she knew almost nothing of the golden-haired woman. As far as she was concerned, Ilyena was only famous for having been killed by Lews Therin, along with her entire family. "Barid Bel," Elan went on, "like most men at the time, certainly found her to his taste. He courted her for a while, as I remember, but gave up the chase after a while, I'm not sure why."

"You'd think he would do the exact opposite, though, wouldn't you?" she said. "As payback for stealing that position years ago. He could have taken her for himself just to spite Lews Therin."

Elan nodded. "He could have. I suppose it wouldn't have been too hard for him. He could be quite charming when he wanted to be." He shrugged. "And yet he didn't."

"He didn't seem particularly resentful. When did that change?" she wondered.

"I told you, it was an accumulation of several instances spread over the course of centuries, a build-up of small frustrations topped by bitter scorn. He kept it all inside for a long time, and it festered there, until he couldn't take it anymore. When he finally turned his coat and joined us, the first thing I asked him was the reason for his abrupt volte-face. He told me the last drop had been hearing Lews Therin telling his officers that without Barid Bel, he couldn't have done any of it. ' _Let him try and achieve anything of worth now_ ,' he said to me."

"Did you take him to Shayol Ghul yourself?" she asked.

"No. I was rather busy, you see, leading the Great Lord's forces against those of the Light," he said wryly. That was the first time he'd ever answered a question that involved the Shadow directly. "I asked Kamarile to take him there with all haste, and they were back before the day was over. I had him lead his own army the very next morning. He bested Lews Therin in the field, winning us the first great victory in almost a year."

"Did it make him feel any better?" she asked curiously.

He frowned at her. "What an odd question. I don't think anyone ever joined the Shadow to 'feel better', pet. He only wanted to best Lews Therin, to crush him. Everything else was irrelevant to him."

"That's nice," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "And if he had, what then? If that was his whole reason for joining your side, what would have happened after he _had_ destroyed him?"

Elan shrugged. "I don't know. Does it matter? You really do ask the most bizarre and immaterial questions." On that note, he turned his attention back to his book.

Shaking her head, she approached the bookshelf, placing back Barid Bel Medar's biography where it belonged.


	8. What is dead may never die

She couldn't have said exactly how long she'd been here. As far as she knew, it had been at least seven or eight months. Sometimes she felt she'd always lived here. She rarely wondered about her family anymore. What was the point? She knew she would never see them again. She had resigned herself to that.

She had no idea what was happening out there in the world. Elan didn't mind sharing his knowledge regarding the Age of Legends, but any question about current events was met with a shrug and a shake of his head or nothing at all. Last week, after their conversation about Demandred and his motivations for joining the Shadow, she'd asked him if any of the other Forsaken were loose in the world. He had corrected her automatically – _'Chosen, pet, how many times must I remind you?'_ – but she had received no proper answer. He would prattle at length about the people they had been before pledging their souls to the Dark One – _'The Great Lord. Are you dense, pet?'_ – but rarely made mention of them after they'd become his cronies – not a word she'd ever used around him, she was not _that_ dense. As a result, she'd taken to call them by their former names, as he did most of the time.

It was incredible how knowing about their previous lives had diminished her fear of them – some of them, in any case. They were all dangerous, to be sure, but sometimes she couldn't help but compare them to children. Spoiled, petty children. But for the possible exception of Mierin Eronaile, the men seemed to be the worst in that regard, Nessosin most of all.

She could understand why most of them had turned to the Shadow, although their reasons were feeble at best, but Joar Addam Nessosin, who was now known as Asmodean, had only come over because someone else had won the prize he thought he deserved, a musical award of sorts. Elan had explained that, during the Age of Legends, people gained status through public recognition. Apparently, being recognized as an artist had been the hardest path of all. He told her that Nessosin had dedicated his life to becoming the greatest musician of his time. She could understand that failing to receive his award must have been frustrating after spending so much time to obtain it, but to throw away everything to pledge his soul to the Shadow seemed an overreaction to say the least. Elan had merely shrugged when she'd pointed that out. She couldn't say whether he used the man's third name as a sign of respect or contempt, or both.

She wished she knew what was going on. _Something_ had to be happening, otherwise Elan wouldn't be here. She didn't know whether he'd managed to keep out of Shayol Ghul for the last three thousand years or had been freed from it only recently. She didn't dare ask.

Elan had never asked her anything about her own life, which was a good thing, as far as she was concerned. Early in her captivity, she had devised a likely background story for herself, in case he ever questioned her. She hoped it might keep her family safe but, in all likelihood, he hadn't inquired because he already knew all there was to know.

She was beginning to like him. It amazed her, this ability to adapt even in the dreariest circumstances. A few months ago, the very thought would have sickened her. She knew she wasn't supposed to actually like him, that it wouldn't help her escape her present situation, only make it more tolerable, but she couldn't help it. Anyway, did it really matter anymore? If she was stuck here with him forever, she might as well make the best of it.

He remained here much more often than he used to. He would go away for a few days, a week at most, then come back for a day or two. They often practiced with their respective blades and sometimes he played the piano. She didn't know if he'd been considered a good musician in his days, as she possessed absolutely no musical notion herself, but she loved to hear him play. Recently, he had agreed to teach her how to play, although he hadn't gotten around to it yet. They had taken to speaking in the Old Tongue, so that she now felt as comfortable with it as with the Common Tongue.

She had just fallen asleep when she heard something crash on the floor next to her. Sitting up, she stared frantically around the room. Elan was sprawled on the ground beside the bed. It looked as if he had attempted to sit on the bed and fallen off of it. Was he drunk? She couldn't see clearly. The only light came from the fire in the other room. Getting out of bed, she approached him carefully. "Elan?" she whispered. He was lying on his stomach, so she turned him over, not an easy feat. She felt something wet on his chest. She couldn't make it out in the gloom, but it smelled like blood. "Elan?" she repeated, louder this time. "Can you hear me?" He didn't move, didn't say anything. She felt at his throat for a heartbeat. It was faint, but it was there.

What to do? She couldn't even see the wound. The candle by her bed usually burned when she needed it to, seemingly on its own accord, but right now it remained desperately extinguished. She could try to drag him to the other room, where she could light one of the glowbulbs – remnants of the Age of Legends – but she might make everything worse by simply moving him. She needed to channel, to Heal him with _saidar_. But how? She had no idea how she'd done it last time. It had just happened. She tried to remember how she'd felt, what she'd done. She'd been angry and desperate and near hysterical; she'd started to shake him. Well, she certainly felt the same way.

Should she try to shake him?

Abruptly she stood, slapping her forehead and cursing profusely. _You wool-brained idiot!_ She couldn't move him to the other room, but she could take one of the glowbulb here. Letting out a few more expletives, she hurriedly brought back one of the artefacts and placed it near Elan's unmoving body. The white light showed her his face, pasty and pale. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. In a panicky rush, she felt for his pulse once more and found it even weaker than it had been a moment ago. Desperate, she removed his coat and shirt and winced at the sight of the wound. It looked very deep. Some blood was still leaking out of the gash. She started to panic in earnest this time, feeling tears running down her face.

Then suddenly, that sentiment of pure joy and peace filled her again, and this time she was very much aware of its power, of the ecstasy she felt at holding it.

She shook her head. She had to focus on the task at hand. She… did something with the Power, trying to sense how she could fix the wound. She wasn't sure how he was still alive, as whatever had made a hole through him seemed to have pierced his heart. She'd reflected before that maybe he didn't have one, that none of the Forsaken had one, but it seemed ridiculous now. Whatever else he might be, he was still human. Taking a deep breath, she guided the Power that was coursing through her into the wound, fixing the internal damage, knitting the skin whole again. She didn't think about what she was doing; she didn't hesitate. It came naturally, as if she'd done it a thousand times before.

When it was done, she considered what to do with him. Eyeing the bed, she endeavoured to weave a thread to haul him up there. It took a few attempts, but she finally managed it. She felt exhausted, drained. _Saidar_ deserted her as soon as Elan rested safely on the bed.

Then, without really thinking about what she was doing, she lay next to him on the narrow bed and fell asleep almost instantly.


	9. You disturb my natural emotions

She hadn't been able to remain asleep for long periods of time, instead waking every half-hour to make sure Elan still breathed, much like a new mother constantly checking on her sleeping baby. She was beginning to doze off once more when she felt his breathing change. He was finally awake. "I'm afraid I had to disobey your orders about not channeling," she said in a low voice. Her arm was laid across his chest, her head resting on his shoulder.

She heard him swallow and clear his throat. "I'll let it slide, just this once," he murmured.

"How magnanimous of you," she said wryly. He let out a weak chuckle.

They lay there for a long time in silence. She thought he fell asleep again after some time, and she drifted off as well, now that she was satisfied he wouldn't die. He was still there when she awoke hours later. They were in the same position as before; the bed really was too narrow for two people. "Elan?" she whispered. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "Have you always called me that?" he asked.

"I've been doing it for a while, yes," she answered truthfully. "You never said anything about it."

"I hadn't noticed," he told her. "Have I ever asked your name?" he went on.

"You did, on my first day here. You don't remember?" she asked him uncertainly.

"I don't. Sorry," he added as an afterthought. At least that explained why he kept calling her 'pet' all the bloody time.

"It's Neya," she said. Her own name sounded odd after so long without hearing it.

"A fitting name. It means 'spirited' in the Old Tongue," he said.

"Yes, I know. I doubt that my parents knew that, however." She'd never had time to ask them. "It's certainly better than Betrayer of Hope, anyway," she went on without thinking, biting her lip in annoyance. That might have been off-limits.

He chuckled softly. She felt his chest shake beneath her arm. "It's less gloomy, I'll concede. Not so impressive in the fear-inspiring department, however," he went on wryly.

It was her turn to laugh. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. She hauled herself on one arm to look at him. He turned his face to her, meeting her eyes. "How many times do I have to save your life before you finally kiss me?" she said. She promptly felt her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. _Blood and ashes!_ She hadn't meant to say _that_ out loud. Had she gone mad?

She saw him flinch, his eyes widening. He looked horrified. "Why in the Pit of Doom would I do that?" he asked in a faint voice.

"I–" She cut off, not sure what to say. How could she cover this up? She took a deep breath, eyes closed. "It was just a quip," she went on with a forced smile. "I'm still tired from the Healing. Forget it." She almost fell off the bed in her haste to get away from him and practically ran into the other room.

* * *

_Kiss her?_ By the blood falls, it had never even crossed his mind, not once since he'd brought her here nine months ago. She was pretty, he had to admit, though he was hardly an expert in that field. Women had never held much interest to him. Not that he was more inclined toward men; he simply wasn't very keen on intimacy in general. It hadn't occurred to him that she might think of him that way. Why would it? He had taken her from her home in the middle of the night, held her captive for almost a year; hardly the sort of things to make a woman swoon, as far as he knew. She was barely old enough to be called a woman. How old could she be? Seventeen, eighteen? And he was… well, at least five hundred and twenty-nine years old. That's how old he was when he travelled to Shayol Ghul and became immortal.

Sighing, he heaved himself off the bed, stretching and marvelling at the fact that he was still alive. That wound should have been fatal. She was an amazing Healer, especially for one of this Age, and she hadn't even been trained yet. With proper tutoring, she would become a truly powerful channeler. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should simply Turn her to the Shadow, but the thought found no anchor in his mind. He found it difficult to concentrate on ideas, sometimes, a sure sign of the madness that had somehow permeated his brain. But if he knew he was insane, if he was aware of it, then was he truly insane? More importantly – did it matter in any way? He would soon be freed of it, and everything else besides.

He joined the girl in the other room, in what he called his library. He possessed many books and artefacts from the Age of Legends and kept them in several secure locations – some of these places he had occupied for centuries, or even millennia, in this instance. She sat at the table, reading. She didn't lift her eyes when he walked in, though he saw her blush despite her obvious attempt at concealing her face with her hair. The book was yet another biography of Lews Therin – one from his early life, dating from decades before the Collapse. Had she figured out what was happening? Did she know that the Dragon had been Reborn? It didn't matter. There was nothing she could do to stop him, and she'd had at least two opportunities to kill him – or let him die – and chosen not to act on them. Of course, her own fate was linked to his. She could not escape this place without his help, not unless she somehow figured out how to Travel. The very idea was laughable.

He took the opportunity to study her, considering for the first time that she was in fact a female being. She was rather short, barely reaching his chest, with curves in all the right places. Her wavy dark brown hair fell lightly just below her shoulders. She had dimples around her mouth. She _was_ pretty. He hadn't been intimate with anyone in… centuries, at the very least, and he had never suffered from the lack of it. So why did he feel a sudden desire to touch her, to kiss her, just as she had suggested moments before? It could simply be her nature, he supposed, although that was a strange twist on what he knew of such people.

He heard her sigh and gave himself a shake, focusing on the present once more. She closed her book and started moving toward him hesitantly, though her hazel eyes fixed him with determination. She said nothing, simply taking his arm and pulling him along back toward the bedroom.

* * *

"You will what, pet?" he asked her some time later.

Feeling drowsy, she grunted something that she hoped sounded like ' _What?'_

"I heard you say this at some point, 'If you ever call me 'pet' again, I swear I will…' but I didn't quite catch what you would do if that were to happen," he clarified. She could almost _hear_ his smug smile.

"I'll let it slide, just this once," she muttered dryly. That made him chuckle. "Did you sleep?" she asked after a while.

"No. I never do," he answered in a sombre tone.

"Never? But–" She cut off with a frown. She had seen him sleep just the night before! Although, in all fairness, he might have been unconscious rather than asleep. She wanted to point out that people needed sleep to live, but realised that might not be his case. He was, after all, one of the Forsaken. Who knew exactly what that entailed? She closed her mouth, at a loss for something to say. The silence began to stretch.

"Do you have any idea what it's like, to be immortal? To know you could not die, even if you wanted to?" he asked eventually, as if he'd read her previous thought. It seemed to be a rhetorical question, so she offered no answer. "I am like a ghost, unreal, barely even there. And quite mad besides," he added softly.

She wanted to comfort him, to say something that would make him feel better, but she knew no word would achieve that. Instead she tightened her grip on him, hugging him closer to her. After a while she drifted off to sleep once more.

When she woke up, he was gone.


	10. The inevitability of human oblivion

She was seated at the piano, pushing hesitantly on the keys. She'd never actually touched the instrument before. Elan had promised he would teach her how to play, but he had been absent since his latest near-encounter with death and the events that followed. She resolved to ask him when he came back. Surely he _would_ come back eventually, wouldn't he?

She tried to match all the notes to the keys, playing them all one by one until she was satisfied she knew which was which. She began to play slowly, remembering the song as she moved her fingers across the board.

"How long have you been practicing that?" Elan asked from behind her.

She didn't jump – she was now quite used to him appearing at random moments – but she felt relieved that he was here, at long last. "I've never even touched it before. I just wanted to try it, that's all." She got up, turning to face him. "You've been gone a long time." It had been almost two weeks; he hadn't been gone that long in months. And of course, he had to stay away just after they'd been intimate for the first time. She'd been afraid she'd scared him off, laughable as that may sound.

"I've been busy." It was clear from his tone that he was not going to expand on the matter. "If that was truly your first attempt, you must have been a pianist in another life, pet."

She blushed faintly, turning back to the instrument. "What is that song, anyway?"

" _Odyssey of the Fireflies_ ," he answered.

"Did you write it?"

"No, not me." He grimaced. "Nessosin."

"Oh. Well, it's beautiful. Not that I know anything about music," she added hastily. "Did you know him well? Before, I mean." There was no need to specify before what. He had rarely mentioned Asmodean except to tell her of his motivations for joining the Shadow.

He was silent for so long that she assumed he would ignore the question. Then he spoke again. "We were… lovers. For a while. A very short while," he muttered.

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. She had been quite sure he liked women – for obvious reasons. Maybe he liked both? Was that a thing? She had no idea. She had received enough mocking comments on her ignorance regarding most matters to know better than to ask, however. She wasn't sure what to say, so she decided to return to the initial subject. "Was it a popular song during the Age of Legends?"

"Not at all. It was never released to the public. He created many songs that never made it outside of his studio," he told her.

"Studio?" she wondered aloud.

"A room designed to record music in. Nessosin had several of those, in fact." He sat down in front of the piano. "I believe I said I would teach you. I have some time now, if you wish." She sat down eagerly on the narrow seat beside him, smiling. "This one is called _The March of Death_."

* * *

Neya looked up from her book as Elan appeared near the fireplace. She was glad that he was coming back more regularly. She walked up to him and hugged him tightly. She felt him tense, as if he'd forgotten she was perfectly allowed to do that now. Although she'd never done it before, admittedly.

"What are you doing?" he asked uneasily. He just stood there stiffly, seemingly afraid to move, obviously not knowing how to respond. It made her chuckle.

"It's called a hug," she answered wryly.

"I know what it's called, pet, but why are you doing it?"

"You've been gone a long time," she purred.

"It's only been three days," he told her indignantly.

She let go of him. "I know. But I've missed you," she said, standing on tip-toe to kiss him.

"Is it really worth the bother?" he asked with a dramatic sigh.

She grinned at him. "It is to me. Come on," she added firmly, taking his arm and leading him to the bedroom. She had to initiate action, because if she left it to him, it would never happen. It wasn't that it bothered him, not exactly. He simply didn't care one way or another, not until it had started in earnest, anyway.

As they lay in bed some time later, she decided to inquire about what had been troubling her for a while now. "Do you prefer men?" she asked him hesitantly. "I mean, you did have an affair with Nessosin."

He didn't look at her when he answered. "That was not uncommon in the Age of Legends. Men sleeping with men, or women with women. People were very open-minded about these things. Nessosin… I'm not sure how it happened. It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing," he said matter-of-factly. "I have no… preference, as you call it."

"Oh. Did you have other lovers, then? Were you ever married? It wasn't mentioned in any of your biographies."

He snickered. "Married? No, never that. I had a few lovers. Very few, compared with the average man of these days. Or woman," he said casually. "My interests lay elsewhere."

She was well aware of that. He was very quick to turn any topic into a lecture on philosophy or, if she was particularly unlucky, on something he called _metaphysics_. She was always careful to ask very specific questions to limit his opportunities to do so because, often as not, he left her far behind with his complicated theories. She felt that now was a good time to change the subject. "What do you know about the ages that came before the Age of Legends?" That actually had a good chance to turn metaphysical, so she hastened to clarify her question. "I mean, what happened just before the Age of Legends? It must have been a dull era, if the next age was called something so glorious."

"It wasn't called that in our days, pet. Ages are named by historians, centuries or millennia later. But to answer your question, not much was known of the ages that came before. Specialists discovered evidence of life dating as far back as billions of years ago. We found many skeletons buried deep underground, humans and creatures of all sorts. We know the world undergoes periods of glaciation, and that, at some point, there was an event called a nuclear winter, but that it must be differentiated from a glaciation. We know the term because we found relics that mentioned it. Apparently, some of our ancestors destroyed the world, or most of it, with unidentified weapons of such power that the whole world had to go in hibernation for a very long time. It is believed that the human race, or what was left of it, went underground for the duration of the event. It is all speculation, however. We have little evidence to back the theory. As I have explained before, the Wheel turns, bringing the same pattern over and over again. Humanity builds itself a world, then destroys it. They destroyed their world with weapons, bringing their own end upon themselves. We destroyed ours with madness, which we brought upon ourselves. Nature reasserts itself while humanity gathers its leftovers, and it all starts anew. It has been thus since the beginning of time and it will ever be so, until time itself is destroyed, when the Great Lord of the Dark wins the ultimate battle, the only one that matters." There was no escaping the gloomy lecture now, not unless she managed to divert him. He complained half-heartedly for a moment, but she managed, eventually.


	11. Prepare to gawk and grovel and stare

She was becoming increasingly worried. He had told her that he'd be back in a couple of days and that everything would be over soon. What _everything_ was supposed to be, she did not know. That had been three weeks ago. Had something happened to him? He had almost died twice already, in the time she'd known him. Could he have actually died this time, or was he simply unable to come back here for some reason? She didn't know, and that annoyed her.

She tried to keep herself busy, playing the piano, reading, cleaning, practicing her sword forms. She was dusting the bedroom when she heard voices in the other room, a woman and a man. She was certain the man wasn't Elan, although she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. She stopped what she was doing, placing the duster carefully on the bed. _Tsorovan_ was in the library, and she cursed herself silently for not keeping it close at hands. To be fair, there was no way she could have anticipated this. There had never been anyone else in here for as long as she'd been around. Should she hide? Where _could_ she hide? Under the bed? That seemed silly. Surely they would find her. Before she could make up her mind, a decision was made for her.

A tall woman erupted in the bedroom, looking regal in a snow white dress. She was incredibly beautiful, with dark hair and ivory-pale skin.

Mierin Eronaile. It had to be her.

The thought that Lanfear was standing a few feet away from her ought to have terrified her beyond sanity, but she remained oddly calm. Elan despised the other Forsaken, had called her a presumptuous hussy on several occasions. It never failed to make her laugh, and that was probably the reason why she found it difficult to conjure anything but disdain for the woman, who was presently eyeing her up and down.

"Who are you?" she demanded haughtily, voice cracking like a whip. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm Ishamael's pet," was the only answer she could think of. She tried to make her voice as neutral as she could.

Frowning, the Forsaken muttered something under her breath. The man who had arrived with her came to stand in the doorway. He was a tall man, if not quite as tall as Elan, with dark, deep-set eyes and long dark hair. Could that be Nessosin? She wasn't certain. Elan had been quite vague about the man who had once been his lover. For a very short while, as he never failed to add.

He eyed her quite thoroughly, smiling. "His pet, eh? Who would have thought?" His grin looked almost feral.

"Do shut your mouth, you fool." Mierin turned to him and said something in a low voice. The man looked startled, his grin slipping off his face, and he gave Neya a sharp glance. He replied something inaudible in return and they both looked at each other, nodding. Suddenly, Neya found herself unable to move. It had to be the One Power. She wondered who was channeling. Probably the man. Elan had told her she would be able to see another woman's weaves and she couldn't see anything, although Mierin seemed to be enveloped in a bright light. Was that what it looked like to be holding _saidar_?

"How long have you been here?" the other woman asked. "What do you know of Ishamael's plans?"

"I've been here for about a year, maybe more." The man looked even more astonished than he had a moment before. Lanfear looked on impassively. "I don't know anything about his plans."

"You expect me to believe that?" Mierin asked with a sneer. "A year, and you don't know _anything_? I suggest you try harder, _pet_ , or you will regret it."

"I really don't, I swear. Great Mistress," she added after a brief hesitation. She thought that was what she was supposed to call her. "He told me nothing of what is happening. I didn't even know you were… ah… free. Great Mistress," she repeated for good measure.

The woman seemed to be considering her words. The man stared at Neya, as if trying to puzzle her out. He was the one who spoke first. "You don't even know that the Drag–" he started to say, but Lanfear cut him off.

" _You spineless idiot, will you shut your mouth!_ " The man recoiled slightly when she yelled at him. She said it in the Old Tongue, but Neya understood it, of course. She and Elan had spoken almost exclusively in the Old Tongue during the last few weeks. Mierin visibly struggled to calm herself, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again she was all regal arrogance once more. "Ishamael is dead, girl," she said crisply. "For good, this time," she added with a bitter twist of her mouth.

It was exactly as she had feared, except that she hadn't really thought it could be true. He was supposed to be immortal! She could feel panic and grief and anger rising in her, but she had to maintain her composure. If Mierin noticed how badly she had hurt her with that information, she would use it against her without a moment's hesitation. "I see," she said, and was relieved when her voice didn't shake. "Where does that leave me, then? Great Mistress," she added hastily. She had to be careful now. Without Elan to back her up, she was on her own, against two of the most powerful Forsaken.

"That leaves you to grovel at my feet, _pet_ , and beg for your pathetic life!" Mierin said, her dark eyes blazing with scorn.

Neya fell to her knees and, doing her best to sound meek and subdued, she begged for her pathetic life.


	12. Hello darkness, my old friend

She thought she was awake. It was difficult to be certain, with the pitch black that permeated her tiny cell. She couldn't see anything. She had no idea how long she'd been in here. It could have been a year or a week. Water and food – if it could be called that – appeared out of nowhere at regular intervals. She was afraid she would lose her mind. She was afraid she _was_ losing her mind. There were no sounds. She was alone. Unequivocally and utterly alone.

Lanfear had brought her here after their… meeting… and Neya hadn't seen the Forsaken since then, or anyone else for that matter. She shuddered as she remembered those hours passed in her company. Nessosin – it _had_ been him; Mierin had called him that at some point – hadn't taken part. The Musician had simply settled in the comfortable armchair with a bottle of wine, his back to them. As far as Neya could tell, he had stared at the fire the entire time. Mierin hadn't been convinced that Neya didn't know anything, despite her impeccable – if she did say so herself – grovelling. Maybe she had grovelled too well. In any case, the hours that followed had echoed with Neya's screams of pain.

* * *

Time passed. It had to be passing. That was what time did, was it not?

Light, let her keep her sanity.

* * *

There came a light. It was faint at first, distant. All of sudden, it was right in front of her, stabbing her eyes with its bright glare.

"Wake up." A woman's sharp voice commanded. Lanfear?

"I'm awake," Neya tried to say. Her voice came out as a croak, almost inaudible.

"You will do exactly as I say. Put one foot wrong and I will make you wish for a quick death. Is that clear?" the woman asked as she opened the cell's door. Neya nodded. Her eyes were slowly becoming accustomed to the light. She could make out the other woman, who appeared as a blurry white form. "Then come with me. Quickly." With that, the Forsaken turned on her heels, taking the light with her. Neya scrambled to her feet, lurching forward and almost falling. She found her balance at the last moment and followed in the direction of the light.

She walked into in a large room, lavishly decorated in white and silver. Mierin sat in a high-backed chair; Neya fell to her knees in front of her. "It would appear that you are properly cowed. A month spent in my dungeon will do that," Lanfear said conversationally. "You belong to me now, _pet_. You will serve me, and only me. You will obey my every command. If you do not, I will destroy everyone you love," she went on threateningly.

When she'd realised Neya truly knew nothing, Mierin had set to extract every bit of knowledge she could from her. Who she was, where she came from, the names of her friends and family. In the end, Neya had even confessed her feelings for Elan. She had left nothing out. She would have said anything to make the pain stop.

Most of it had been made up, however.

She'd had to admit to sharing Elan's bed, of course. The woman had probably guessed it already. Everything else had contained just enough truth as to appear credible. In the early days of her captivity, she had carefully crafted herself an entirely fake background, in case Ishamael ever felt the urge to act as Mierin had. It was clear that Elan hadn't told Lanfear about her, so the lie had been made that much easier. She wasn't sure how she'd managed with the pain – the blinding, searing pain – but she had. If anything good ever came out of this, it would be that her family, at least, would be safe.

Unfortunately, she didn't think she would survive another session. Her best hope at this point was to act subdued and docile, to grovel and fawn just the right amount, so as not to raise suspicion. Truth be told, she didn't know why she was still alive. What did the Forsaken want with her?

"Do we understand each other?" Mierin demanded.

Neya nodded emphatically. "Yes, Great Mistress. It will be as you command."

"Good. I am going to tell you what you need to know to accomplish your task," she said, "so you had better pay attention. I will not repeat myself."

She told her that the Dragon had been Reborn. The Forsaken were all loose, though some of them, like Ishamael, had already met their demise at the hands of Lews Therin – as Mierin called him. The Dragon had accomplished several prophecies already: he had seized the Stone of Tear and taken _Callandor_ , the Sword that is not a Sword. He was now roaming the Aiel Waste, gathering his people.

Nessosin had tried to put his hands on an important artefact in Rhuidean – it appeared to be a city of sorts – but Lews Therin had defeated him. Mierin had come to an agreement with the Dragon: he would keep Nessosin by his side as a teacher, for no one else could teach him how to wield _saidin_ , and Lanfear would make sure Nessosin didn't deviate from this course. She had planted a shield on him, a block that would allow him to channel no more than a trickle of the Power. Additionally, Lews Therin had severed Nessosin's bond to the Great Lord. He was now as vulnerable as any mortal and susceptible to the taint besides. Lanfear wanted Neya to keep an eye on both of them and make certain both were fulfilling their parts. Somehow, she was also supposed to defend Nessosin against the other Chosen who would surely seek to destroy him, now that he had fallen from the Great Lord's favour.

Neya had no idea how she was supposed to infiltrate the Dragon's growing Aiel army and get close enough to him to watch his every move, or Nessosin's for that matter, but Lanfear couldn't be bothered by such trivialities. The Great Mistress was confident her little pet would find a way.

Without further ado, Mierin opened a… hole… in the air. A gateway, she called it. It suddenly came to Neya that she couldn't see anything the other woman wove. Had she been cut off from the Source? She dared not ask. She was probably shielded, at the very least. But why couldn't she see the weaves? She had no time to ponder. The gateway opened in the middle of nowhere and Neya stared in dismay at the bare, rocky landscape. Lanfear indicated the city in the far distance and practically pushed her through the opening. Before it closed, almost as an afterthought, she told her to run as fast as she could toward Rhuidean, if she didn't want to freeze to death. With that, the gateway closed.

Was the woman mad? She could hardly freeze in this heat. Blood and ashes! She had been here for less than a minute and already felt her mouth drying. Rhuidean seemed to be three or four miles distant, although she was not a good judge of these things.

With a sigh of mixed relief and apprehension, Neya set off toward the city.


	13. It's a small world after all

It was night when she finally reached Rhuidean. Incredibly, she _was_ freezing. The temperature had started dropping an hour ago and hadn't stopped since. Before she even reached the outskirts of the city, a giant man with dark red hair had grabbed her arm and asked who she was and what she was doing here. She told him she was looking for Jasin Natael. That was the name Mierin said Nessosin took for himself in the Waste. It seemed to have absolutely no effect on the man. He accompanied her to a cluster of tents near a large, empty fountain and offered her a blanket, which she gratefully wrapped around herself. They remained there for a long time. She didn't know what they were waiting for.

An hour later, a tent flap finally opened and a group of women came out. Neya had been sitting on the edge of the dried-up fountain, staring blearily at the ground, shivering with cold despite the blanket. The women were all taller than Neya, except for one, who was even shorter. She was a pale woman with dark hair and large brown eyes. There was something odd about her face. Neya couldn't quite put an age to her.

The man who had brought her here addressed one of the taller women, who looked like a grandmother with her white hair and creased face. "Wise One, this one arrived an hour ago out of nowhere, blue with cold. She says she is looking for the man Jasin Natael."

They all eyed her up and down, as if examining a strange beast. The woman – the Wise One – was the first to speak. "Who are you, girl?" Her voice was reedy but strong.

"My name is Neya, Wise One." It seemed to be the appropriate title. She didn't say anything else, instead waiting for the older woman to speak.

Another woman spoke. She was slim and taller than the Wise One, with blue eyes and white hair, although her face looked improbably young. She seemed to be addressing the Wise One. "She can channel, Bair. She is strong." The older woman gave a small nod and opened her mouth to speak, but Neya was saved from whatever she was about to say by the appearance of two more women emerging from the tent. They both looked much younger than everyone else. The first was tall, with red hair and bright blue-green eyes. The other, as short as Neya herself, looked stunningly familiar. Why, if not for that tanned skin, she would have been the spitting image of–

"Neya?" the young woman whispered incredulously, staring.

Neya blinked in shock. "Egwene?" she murmured.

The girl stood there frozen in place for half a second before taking a few hasty steps toward her and throwing her arms around her. "Light, it _is_ you. I can't believe it! I thought… We all assumed…" She trailed off, taking a small step back to look at her. "Neya, we thought you were dead," she said in a low voice. "What happened to you?"

The other women were taking it all in, observing the scene quietly but keenly. Before Neya could answer, the ageless woman spoke. "Egwene, do you know this young woman?" she asked crisply.

Egwene half-turned to her, amazement still painted on her tanned face. "I do, Moiraine. She's–"

"Egwene, wait. Please," Neya interrupted her. "I'm sorry, but I need to talk to Jasin Natael. It's important. Do you know where I can find him?"

Egwene frowned at her, obviously confused. "Natael? Rand's bard?"

It was Neya's turn to scowl. "Rand's bard? Rand is here?" she asked dubiously.

"Yes. Mat is here too," she added. "Wait until he sees you! He will be…" She trailed off once more, looking at her with concern. "Neya? Are you alright?"

She knew the blood must have drained from her face; she felt faint. "Mat is here?" she repeated, dread tinting her voice. He couldn't be. After everything she'd been through to keep them all safe, they couldn't be _here_ , of all places, where the danger was strongest. It wasn't fair! What on earth were they doing here? Inhaling deeply, she tried to make her voice steady. "I can't see him right now. I need to find Natael," she repeated stubbornly. "Why would Rand have a bard?" she asked abruptly. That didn't make any sense.

"Rand appointed Natael as Court Bard of the Dragon Reborn," Egwene said with a faint grimace of distate.

Neya felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. "Rand is the Dragon Reborn?" Her voice was a bare whisper. Egwene nodded, a slight frown creasing her face. " _Rand al'Thor_ is the Dragon Reborn?" she said again, louder this time. They were all staring at her now.

Neya started to laugh. She didn't know what else to do. The sound reminded her vaguely of Elan's mad laughter.

* * *

She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Lanfear had referred to the Dragon Reborn as Lews Therin. Neya had seen pictures of the man; she had assumed his reincarnation would look as he had when he was known only as the Dragon. She had most definitely _not_ expected Rand bloody al'Thor, of all people, to turn out to be the man who would both save and destroy the world. It changed everything, of course.

The Aiel and the ageless woman had pestered her with questions and, when they saw she wasn't going to be bullied into answering them, they had turned to Egwene. But Neya had been inflexible: she had to see Natael right away. It was urgent. Lives were at stakes. She could not explain. Finally, reluctantly, they had agreed to lead her to the building Rand had taken for himself.

There were two women guarding the entrance, both rather tall. It seemed to be an Aiel thing, as were the red hair and clear eyes. Could it mean that Rand was Aiel, somehow? His height and colouring had always set him apart from everyone else in the Two Rivers.

The Wise One asked if the _Car'a'carn_ was inside. The Chief of Chiefs, Neya translated automatically from the Old Tongue. It appeared to be what the Aiel called Rand. The guards started to shake their head in response when a soft voice came from behind them. They all turned to face the man who was walking toward them.

"I'm right here, Moiraine. What is it this time? Couldn't it wait until morning?" he asked resignedly. Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn. He seemed even taller than she remembered, and larger too, more muscular. His dark red hair was tousled and his eyes looked tired. He was dressed in a fancy-looking green coat with gold embroidery. When no one answered, he eyed them all wearily, then did a double-take when catching sight of her. His eyes widened in shock. "Neya?" he asked in a puzzled voice. She gave him a small grin. Suddenly he was looming over her and crushing her in his arms. He was indeed a lot stronger than he used to be. "Light!" was all he seemed able to manage to say at the moment.

She'd been wondering how she was going to get him alone, to tell him about Lanfear and Ishamael and everything else. This seemed like the best opportunity. Steeling herself, she murmured as softly as she could while he was still hugging her. "We need to talk about Nessosin," she said.

He pulled away from her as if he'd been goosed, glaring at her for a second before regaining his composure. His face became carefully guarded. Everyone was watching them attentively. Finally, Rand jerked his head toward the building. "Come with me," he said harshly. When the other women started to follow, he looked briefly back over his shoulder. "Just her. Alone. That is an order, Moiraine," he added firmly. The women froze in their tracks, staring at Neya. She heard Egwene call out to him, then to her, but she was already following him inside. She didn't look back.


	14. Crazy little thing called love

They came before a carved wooden door and Rand stopped in front of it, looking intensely at it for a long moment. He must have set wards around the room, Neya assumed. Finally he opened the door, gesturing for her to step inside. It was a vast space, almost bare but for a large bed and a smaller cot placed at opposite ends of the room, and a few cushions scattered on the floor. The cot was occupied by Nessosin, who sat gloomily plucking at the cords of his harp. He didn't raise his head when they walked in. He seemed to be muttering to himself.

Rand sat down on one of the cushions and motioned for her to do the same. "Wine?" he offered flatly. She nodded and soon two goblets were floating across the room. She took the one which hovered closer to her and took a sip. Thanks to Elan, she'd become quite good at appreciating wine; this one was drinkable at best. She set the goblet down on the floor next to her. She should have asked for water instead. "How did you get here?" Rand demanded.

Nessosin finally roused himself from his sulk at the angry tone in the Dragon Reborn's voice. When he saw Neya, he practically jumped to his feet and scrambled toward them. "My Lord Dragon, this woman is dangerous. She's a channeler, and she's strong. She's Lanfear's creature, my Lord Dragon. And she was Ishamael's before that." He spoke rapidly and looked agitated. "She cannot be trusted."

"Be silent, Natael," Rand said in a dangerously soft voice. The older man's mouth snapped shut audibly. He looked as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. Slowly, he walked back to his cot and sat down, glaring at Neya. Rand turned his attention back to her as if nothing had happened. "Well?"

"Rand, I think it's best if he doesn't hear what I have to tell you," she said hesitantly. Rand seemed so cold, so distant, so different from the boy she had grown up with. She understood why, of course, but she was almost scared of him.

He made a small gesture with his right hand. "He can't hear us," he said simply. Neya nodded. Taking a deep breath, she told him everything.

* * *

It took longer than she would have thought. "I'm probably leaving some details out, but most of what E… Ishamael told me concerned the Age of Legends and what the other Forsaken were like before they became who they are now," she finished at last. She had left nothing out; nothing that mattered, anyway. Rand's face never changed.

He appeared to be carefully considering everything she had said. "So Lanfear sent you to insure Natael's… loyalty… and to keep him safe at the same time?" he asked her slowly.

"And to make sure he was teaching you properly," she added. "She didn't say if or when she was going to ask for reports from me, though. As far as I know, she could be appearing at any time. And I probably wasn't supposed to tell you all of this, although she didn't expressly forbid it. Of course, she wasn't aware that we knew each other. She seemed utterly convinced that I would do everything she ordered without question," she said.

"So you need to stay close to Natael and myself," Rand stated. "I can't think of a reason why you would remain around us all the time, especially him," he went on, frowning.

"I think I do," she said with a sigh. "I've been thinking about it on my way here. I didn't know it would be _you_ I'd have to convince, so I had to come up with a likely story, a good reason to be looking for Natael," she continued. "I was going to pretend to be his lover."

Rand's eyes widened in surprise. Clearly, this was not what he had expected. "But that's hardly a story!" he exclaimed. "And it doesn't explain why you're here. Or why you left home in the first place. What did you tell Egwene?"

"Nothing yet. And here's the rest of the story," she went on in a low voice, even though she knew no one else was listening. "I ran away to look for adventure. I met Natael at some point and we became lovers. Then we had an argument. He went his way and I went mine. But woolheaded girl that I am, I couldn't forget him and have been looking for him ever since, finally tracking him to this _kjasic_ place."

Rand was staring at her, incredulous. "You do realise what everyone will think of you if you tell them that," he said. "Egwene especially. Mat might understand, but–"

"Do you have a better suggestion?" she cut him off sharply. "Don't you think I would prefer to pass as the hero in shiny armour who comes to rescue your sorry hide?" she asked bitterly. "Do you have any idea what it's been like for me, this past year? _Do_ you, my Lord Dragon?" she went on with a sneer. She didn't let him answer. "In any case, I'd rather pass for a love-struck ninny than a Darkfriend," she told him sourly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" he told her, red-faced. He took a deep breath. "Neya, I'm sorry. I can't imagine what you have been through. But you have to understand that the world has changed since you've gone. _I've_ changed, and Mat, and Egwene," he went on softly. "Maybe her most of all," he murmured, almost too low for her to hear. He gave himself a shake. "It will do, I suppose. But how do you explain your wandering in the Waste and surviving?"

"I can channel. Surely a stubborn channeler could have made her way through this Light-cursed land?" she asked pointedly.

He gave her a small shrug. "It will have to do," he said again. Standing, he made a small gesture in Natael's direction. The man appeared to be asleep, but his eyes opened as soon as he heard Rand address him. "Natael, we need to talk."

* * *

After they finally convinced the one-time Forsaken to play along with their little scheme, Neya fell asleep on the bed and only woke up around noon. Natael was still in the room, plucking at his harp and scowling at nothing in particular. He barely glanced at her when she got up. "You will have to do better than that when we're around people, Jay," she said with a thin smile.

He frowned at her. "Jay?"

"I can't just call you Natael like everyone else. We're supposed to be lovers, remember? Unless you would prefer something cheesier?" she asked derisively. "I can think of a few nicknames for you, pumpkin."

"Jay is fine. Well, it's not, but it will do. There's no one around right now, however," he stated with a wide gesture encompassing the whole room. "I expect proper respect from you when we're alone, little girl," he went on contemptuously.

She snorted. "You deserve as much respect as a poisonous snake. Less, in fact," she told him. "After all, the snake cannot help the fact that it is poisonous, it was simply born this way. _You_ chose to pledge yourself to the Shadow and become a murderous tyrant out of sheer spite." She grimaced. "The snake is probably more human than you are."

He glared at her silently for a moment before going back to his harp. She recognised the tune: it was _The March of Death_. She felt a sudden surge of grief. She couldn't stay here a moment longer.

Rand had told her that she was free to come and go as she pleased. The women who lived in the building – the Maidens, Rand called them – kept a close watch on her as she strode through the wide halls. When she reached the entrance, she set to find Mat.

She would have to face him sooner or later.


	15. Some people just feel like home

She found Mat half an hour later, playing dice with a group of Aiel. A woman was sitting beside him, grinning at him. She was pretty, with short golden hair and pale blue eyes. She looked up as Neya approached them and put a possessive arm around Mat's shoulders. Mat glanced up at Neya, shielding his eyes against the bright glare of the noon sun.

Considering the endless string of curses spilling from his mouth when he finally recognised her, neither Rand nor Egwene had told him she was here. "Blood and bloody ashes!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Burn my eyes, is this some kind of joke?" he asked around.

"No, it's just me, Mat. Nice to see you, too," Neya told him with a small grin.

"Blood and ashes," he repeated, softly this time. He moved closer to her, carefully, as if afraid she would take flight. He stopped in front of her, squinting. "Is it really you?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm the one who put itchy powder in your underpants three years ago, yes. Sorry about that," she said, her grin widening.

"I can't bloody believe it. Burn you, we thought you were dead!" he said with a scowl. "Do you have any idea what it's been like since you disappeared? We–" He cut off abruptly, shaking his head. He struggled visibly for a short while, muttering under his breath. "Are you alright?" he asked her, eyes suddenly filled concern. "What happened? Where in the flaming Pit of Doom have you been?"

"Well, I wasn't anywhere near the Pit of Doom. It's a long story." She hesitated. "I'd rather not tell it in front of everyone." The dice players had interrupted their game to listen in on their conversation and were gazing at her curiously. "We have a lot to catch up on. Maybe you could show me around a bit?"

He nodded briefly. "Good idea." He turned to the blond woman. "I'll be back later. I need to talk to my little sister," he told her. The woman looked slightly startled but didn't say anything. Mat put a hand on Neya's shoulder, giving her a small, firm push. "Let's go."

* * *

They walked in silence for a while. They arrived near one of the fountains in a partially shaded square. There was no one around that Neya could see. "Let's just sit there," Mat said, indicating a large stone. When they were settled, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Alright. Tell me everything," he said.

"You first," she countered brightly.

He looked at her indignantly. " _Me?_ Burn you, you're the one who vanished without a trace! I'll tell you about what happened to me when I've had some satisfying answers as to your whereabouts during the past year, young lady," he said with mock severity. He could never remain serious for more than five minutes at a time, could Mat. She saw the corners of his mouth twitch slightly.

"Fine, fine. You got me," she said with a sly smile, hands raised in surrender. "But you have to keep it to yourself," she told him gravely. He nodded sharply and, for the second time in less than a day, she recounted her story - well, most of it.

She had to arrange it to fit in Natael, of course. Rand had told her that no one knew who Natael really was, so she had to leave out his real identity and give Mat the version she had come up with instead. She purposefully omitted some minor details as well, like sharing Elan's bed or being tortured by Lanfear. There was no need to burden him with such trifles. "That's pretty much it. Any questions?" she asked wryly.

"About a thousand, but let's save that for later," he replied bluntly. "How about a good scolding instead?" he asked.

"You're going to _scold_ me for being abducted by one – no, two! – of the Forsaken? I didn't exactly ask for it, you know!" she said, outrage tinting her voice.

"Alright, I was just teasing. I'm not sure what to make of it, that's all. It's a lot to take in," he muttered, adding in a few curses for good measure. "Are you alright, though? Lanfear really didn't hurt you at all?" He sounded a little sceptical.

She gave a noncommittal grunt, shrugging slightly. It was time to change the subject. "What about you, then? How did you get mixed up in this merry mess?"

He told her about Moiraine showing up in Emond's Field just before Bel Tine, only a month after Neya disappeared. He recounted their journey through Andor and the Ways, their struggle at the Eye of the World, Rand discovering he could channel, Moiraine telling him he was the Dragon Reborn. He depicted the hunt for the Horn of Valere and the dagger that had poisoned his mind since they'd walked into Shadar Logoth. The Seanchan invasion and the battle at Falme, fought with the Heroes of the Horn, Artur Hawkwing himself at their lead. His visit to Tar Valon and the White Tower, where he was finally Healed. And just recently, the taking of the Stone of Tear, Rand's proclamation and his journey into the Waste. After a brief hesitation, Mat removed the scarf he wore around his neck and told her about a red, twisted doorway that led into another world and his ensuing meetings with the Aelfinn and Eelfinn, the answers and memories they had given him. How they had cheated him and attempted to kill him.

It took much longer than her own story. Her friends hadn't contented themselves with sitting in front of a fire and reading books about the Age of Legends. They had had adventures beyond what even she could have dreamed of. There was a long silence after he finished, during which she tried to digest everything.

Her stomach grumbled loudly, making Mat chuckle. "We've been here a long time, longer than I thought. I'm starving," he said, getting up and stretching languorously. "Let's get something to eat."

"I don't suppose you've heard from home," she said a moment later. It wasn't really a question; he had been gone almost as long as she had. She wasn't surprised when he shook his head mutely in reply.

They walked back to the main square, where Egwene stood waiting for them, hands on hips. She looked at them, scowling, as if they'd spent the afternoon preparing one of their pranks. "There you are," she told Neya, ignoring Mat entirely. "Moiraine has been looking for you all day," she announced bossily. _She hasn't changed that much_ , _it seems,_ Neya mused. "Come on," Egwene went on, turning around.

She took a few determined steps before realising Neya wasn't following. "Egwene, I'm hungry. I'll find her later," she promised the other girl. Taking Mat's arm, they went the opposite way in search of something to eat.


	16. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same

They ate something called _gara_ , which turned out to be a rather large, poisonous lizard that tasted like chicken. They sat with a group of Aielmen sharing a small fire. One of them, the same man who had brought her to the women's tent the previous night, made a few passes at her, subtly but steadily, until Mat put his foot down – literally – on the other man's foot. Her suitor only laughed, winking at her conspiratorially.

They played a game of dice afterward and were joined by the short-haired woman who had seemed so close to Mat earlier. She was introduced as Melindhra, of the Jumai Sept – not that Neya had any clue what that was supposed to mean. After a while the woman grew obviously bored and sat closer to Mat, whispering in his ear. He quickly lost interest in the game and they both got up soon after that.

Mat turned to Neya. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked with a leer, an arm around Melindhra's waist.

She grinned back at him. "Go ahead," she said, standing up. "I have to find Moiraine anyway."

Mat scowled darkly. "Are you sure you want to go on alone? I can come with you tomorrow, if you want," he told her.

"I'm fine. Go on," she repeated, making a shooing motion at them. Mat nodded and they both walked away.

Neya started toward the tent she'd first be taken to the night before. The dice players called after her, asking her to come back. She gave them a small wave without turning around, but it only made them call louder. She chuckled softly to herself.

She made her way slowly, unhurriedly, pausing to ask directions twice after she'd gotten lost. The city was larger than she had first assumed. Finally she arrived where she wanted, only to realise that the women were inside the tent. She could hear them chatter and found that she didn't want to join them. She looked around for a place to settle to wait but movement to her right caught her eye.

A tall, hulking man was whirling around with a sword a few paces away. She approached him casually then spotted a practice blade lying nearby. Picking it up, she smoothly undercut the man's next form with one of her own. He stood frozen for a moment, obviously startled, but she gave him a small grin and shifted easily into a walking stance, stepping to his right. His shock faded as fast as it had come and he followed her, moving like a stalking leopard.

They fought for a long time, until her arms ached and sweat covered her from head to toe, despite the cold of night, but she didn't stop. It was good to be holding a sword again, although she regretted having to abandon her _yatagan_ behind, the fancy blade Elan had given her.

The man came to a sudden halt, motioning to his left with a jerk of his head. The women had finally come out of the tent and were watching their little duel dispassionately. Moiraine and Egwene were there, as well as the grandmotherly Wise One Neya had met the previous night. She turned back to the man, pleading him with her eyes to keep on fighting, but he simply gave a small bow and murmured something in the Old Tongue. _True blood of Manetheren?_ She frowned at him. What an odd thing to say. Manetheren had been dead for centuries, according to the history book she'd read in the first days of her captivity. Before she had time to wonder about it, however, the women rounded on her.

"Neya Cauthon, we would speak with you," the Wise One intoned.

Snorting with laughter, Neya shook her head. "Al'Kane, Wise One, not Cauthon. He's not my husband, you know," she told them.

They all frowned at her, except Egwene, who was chewing her lower lip. "But he is your brother, is he not?" Moiraine asked softly, with a brief sidelong glance in Egwene's direction. "Your name–"

"My name is what it is, Moiraine Damodred," Neya cut her off. "Deal with it. Now, I believe you wanted to see me," she went on, drawing herself up as much as she could. "Here I am."

Moiraine took a few steps in her direction. "Will you join me in my room, where we can talk privately?" she asked evenly. She was shorter than Neya. Not by much, and she made up for it in sheer presence, but it made Neya slightly uncomfortable. She had always felt more at ease around people who were taller than herself, which was everyone, usually. With a shrug, she gestured for the Aes Sedai to lead the way.

* * *

"Would you like some wine?" Moiraine asked once they were in her room.

Neya shook her head, sitting down gingerly on one of the cushions resting on the ground. Her muscles ached from her earlier skirmish. The man had shadowed them all the way to the room, never speaking, and now appeared to be guarding the door. "Just water, if you have any, thank you," she replied politely.

The Aes Sedai handed her a goblet filled with water and sat down opposite her on another cushion. "How did you come here?" she asked without preamble. "Are you or are you not Matrim's sister?"

Neya smiled wryly. "Did you drag me here so you could pelt me with questions, Aes Sedai?"

Moiraine gave her a level look. "Nobody dragged you here, girl. But yes, I do wish to ask you a few questions," she said coolly.

"And why should I give you any answers?" Neya asked calmly, taking a sip from her goblet.

Moiraine eyed her warily. "I see that Matrim has warned you against me."

Neya snorted. "Warned me? Now that has to be the understatement of the year. And Rand _warned_ me as well," she told the other woman with a sneer. "If it's any consolation, I don't intend to answer anyone else's questions either. It's nothing personal," she went on with a shrug. "However, I am willing to answer one of your questions, if you'll answer one of mine."

Moiraine seemed to consider that for a moment. "What do you wish to know?"

"Who is he, the man who follows you around? The one I was training with earlier?" Neya asked promptly, leaning forward.

The Aes Sedai briefly arched an eyebrow in surprise; it was obviously not the question she had expected. "His name is Lan. He is my Warder," she answered carefully.

Neya waited for more, but nothing came. _Bloody Aes Sedai_ , Mat had said earlier, more than once. "I see. What do you want to know?" she asked, spreading her hands.

"Is your name different from Matrim's because his parents adopted you?" she inquired calmly.

Neya nodded once, sharply. "Yes, it is." She certainly wasn't going to expand on the matter. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll be on my way," she said briskly, standing up. She winced again when her legs and back complained at the sudden movement. "Thank you for the water."

As she opened the door, Moiraine called after her. "You must at least allow me to teach you to channel, child. You are in danger until you learn proper control."

Neya ignored her. She paused outside, looking toward Lan the Warder. He was sharpening his blade. "You're not half-bad with that thing," she told him with a small grin.

He didn't glance up as he answered. "And you're surprisingly good," was all he said.

"Why did you say that, earlier? True blood of Manetheren?" she asked him curiously.

He paused for a moment, finally meeting her eyes. "You speak the Old Tongue?" he asked her in return.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You two were clearly made for each other," she said, making a small gesture toward Moiraine's room. "I hope we can practice again one of these days, _Gaidin_ ," she added before walking away.


	17. Can music save your mortal soul?

She went back to her room – Rand's room – to find the Dragon Reborn and Natael focusing on nothing she could see. It had to be weaves of _saidin_ , the male half of the Source. She considered for a moment then decided to join them. She sat on a cushion next to her supposed lover. Natael scowled at her. "My Lord Dragon," he said crisply, "perhaps it would be best for us to continue this lesson another time."

Rand eyed Neya warily, but he simply shrugged. "Why? She can't see anything. If she wants to sit here and stare at invisible weaves, it's all the same to me. Show me again," he ordered the older man.

She watched them work, impressed at how relaxed Rand appeared around the former Forsaken. Natael, on the other hand, seemed agitated. She listened to them with only half an ear, mulling over everything that had happened today, particularly Mat's account of the past year. She also considered Moiraine's warning about channeling. The Aes Sedai was right, of course. Neya would need to learn to use the One Power properly, eventually. After everything Mat had told her about the other woman, however, she couldn't find it in her to trust her. She would ask Egwene tomorrow.

The men were done with their lesson. Rand was getting to his feet and Natael had already retreated to his cot, picking up his harp. Rand turned to Neya. "Are you alright? I didn't see you all day," he said, looking concerned. "Did Lanfear come to you?"

She shook her head hastily. "No, I haven't seen her. I woke up late, spent the afternoon with Mat, then sparred with Moiraine's Warder," she told him.

"You _sparred_ with Lan?" he repeated dubiously.

"Indeed. I picked up a few skills while I was away," she explained with a casual shrug.

"I see. I'm sorry, I have to meet with the clan chiefs. Are you staying here?" he asked, glancing in Natael's direction.

"Yes. Jay and I have some bonding to do," she said. Rand frowned slightly at 'Jay' but didn't reply. He left the room a moment later.

Neya walked up to the older man and sat beside him on the cot. He turned to her, scowling darkly. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

She smiled innocently. "I just want to listen to you play the harp, that's all. Elan always said you were the best harpist of your Age," she told him truthfully. Elan had also said that the man was vain and arrogant – like most of the Forsaken. In any case, a little flattery never hurt.

Natael's frown faded somewhat. He sighed dramatically. "Fine. But don't talk, or move," he commanded. "And don't breathe too loudly," he added nastily.

Then he began to play. The man might be a nuisance, but he did play beautifully. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes to enjoy the music. She wasn't familiar with the tune.

He let the last note dissolve into the air and a hush engulfed the room. They didn't talk for a long time. Eventually he cleared his throat. "Are you going to stay there all night?" he asked dryly.

"I would sooner eat my own liver," she replied with a bright smile, standing up. "Good night, dumpling."

"Don't call me that, woman," he growled at her. "As if the situation wasn't bad enough, now I have to endure you as well," he muttered sourly.

She didn't bother to answer this time. They would have to be more civil toward each other, however, otherwise this masquerade would break the moment they were seen in public.

* * *

She set to find Egwene the next morning. She found her friend filling jugs of water near the Wise One's tent. "Good morning," she called out cheerfully. "Need some help with that?"

Egwene started, nearly dropping her jug, and glared at her in reproach. "Oh, so now you're talking to me?" she said bitterly.

"Eggs, I'm sorry. It's been a long… week," she finished lamely. "Can we talk? We have so much to catch up on."

The other girl straightened up, carefully placing the jug down. "Let me just take care of this first."

After she had disposed of the jugs, they decided to sit in the same spot where she had talked with Mat the day before. "I'm really sorry about yesterday. It's all a lot to take in," Neya said softly. "I never imagined I'd find you three here. And everything that's happened…" She trailed off, suddenly at a loss for words.

"I'm more curious as to what happened to _you_ ," Egwene told her. "Rand and Mat haven't told me anything, and it seems Moiraine didn't get much out of you. Where have you been? Why did you disappear like that? You didn't run away, did you? Do you have any idea what it's been like for Natti and Abell, and the girls?" she went on in a low voice. "Light, even Mat looked depressed."

Neya's heart broke at the mention of her family. As if she would ever abandon them without a word, after everything they had done for her. But that was what they had convened with Rand and Natael. She had left home to find adventure and gotten tangled with the gleeman some time afterward. Sighing inwardly, she didn't have to feint the blush of shame creeping in her cheeks. "I was bored," she started to say. She went on quickly when she saw Egwene's expression of outrage. "I thought I would be back in a month or two. I hadn't planned on being away for so long, I swear. I just got carried away, I guess." She spread her hands guiltily. "I don't need a lecture, Eggs. I know I screwed up. Please don't be angry. I need your help. Please," she repeated fervently, meeting her friend's large brown eyes.

She heard Egwene swallow audibly, as if she were holding back tears. Her voice was a bit unsteady. "Neya, we all thought you were dead. You do realise that, don't you?" she asked, clearly not expecting an answer. Neya nodded miserably; she could feel her own tears threaten to spill. Egwene sighed. "It's not my place to lecture you," she went on more firmly. "I'm just glad you're alright," she finished with a tremulous smile. Suddenly they were both crying in each other's arms.

They pulled away eventually, sniffling, looking slightly embarrassed. Neya gave her friend a small smile. "How about we changed the subject?"

Egwene nodded eagerly. "Can we talk about the fact that you can channel? You _are_ aware that you can channel, aren't you?" she asked with a slight frown.

"Yes, of course. And as a matter of fact, I was hoping we would talk about that," Neya told her truthfully. "You can channel too, can't you?" she added after a brief pause.

Egwene nodded. "Moiraine began to teach me soon after we left the Two Rivers. Now the Wise Ones have taken me on as their apprentice," she said brightly. "I've learned a lot with them already, although their methods are rather… unusual. Has anyone taught you anything?"

Neya shook her head ruefully. "I've only channeled twice so far, without really knowing what I was doing. I Healed someone," she explained.

"Healing? But that's one of the most difficult ability to master! How could you have done it without knowing what you were doing? Did they survive?" Egwene wondered dubiously.

Neya gave her a tight smile. "It was the same person both times, actually. And yes, he did survive." _And then he got himself killed_ _anyway_ , she thought bitterly. "I don't even know how to embrace the Source, to tell you the truth," she admitted.

"You of all people should know that channeling isn't safe without proper training, even for a woman, especially considering how strong you are," Egwene told her. That was the second time someone had mentioned how strong she was. How could they know that? "You should ask Moiraine for advice, at least. I know the boys warned you about her, but she's not a bad person, Neya. She can help you. I don't trust myself to teach you on my own," she said simply.

"I'll think about it. Egwene, what happened to you, exactly? Mat was rather vague about everyone else and he said he couldn't remember most of what happened after picking up that cursed dagger in Aridhol. He told me about Falme, told me you were there, but why were you there when you were supposed to be training at the White Tower?" she asked curiously.

Egwene's face had gone very pale. She recounted the events of the past year from her point of view, speaking softly, but looking fierce whenever she mentioned the Seanchan. _All in all, I really don't have much cause to complain_ , Neya found herself thinking.


	18. I hope some day you'll join us

She had to learn to channel, that much was certain. She couldn't risk hurting other people because of her ignorance. It grated on her that she would have to ask Moiraine after all. She had considered going to the Wise Ones but changed her mind when she saw what they had Egwene doing. Never in a million years could she manage to scrape like that unless her life was in imminent danger, not after what had happened with Lanfear. She wished Rand could have taught her instead, but if a man had been able to teach her, Elan would have done it a long time ago. No, it had to be Moiraine.

She reached the Aes Sedai's room just before noon. The older woman was talking quietly to her Warder inside the room. They both hushed when they saw her approach. "Moiraine Sedai, may I have a word?" she asked the diminutive woman as demurely as she could.

Moiraine studied her for a moment before nodding. "Come in, please," she said coolly.

Neya stepped inside, silently blessing the cool interior. She had trouble adjusting to the intense heat of the days. "I apologise if I was rude to you the other day," she began without preamble. "Can you teach me how to embrace the Source and channel?" she went on evenly.

The corner of Moiraine's mouth twitched slightly. "You _do_ need guidance and discipline. I'd be glad to begin your training, but you must enrol in the White Tower as soon as we reach Tar Valon," she said firmly.

"I think I'll pass, but thank you for the offer," she told the Aes Sedai politely. This was not what she had come for. "I only need the rudiments, just enough to make sure I don't do anything stupid, so to speak," she went on.

Moiraine arched one eyebrow. "You are not aware of your own strength, are you, child?" Neya shook her head slowly. "Can you sense the ability to channel in myself?"

"I think so," Neya replied hesitantly. Suddenly her eyes widened. "Now you're glowing!"

Moiraine nodded. "I have embraced the Source. I am going to weave a simple thread of Air," she said.

Neya grinned at her enthusiastically. "I can see it! It's right there," she pointed in the direction of the thread of _saidar_.

"I assume that you have touched the Source before," Moiraine inquired.

Neya nodded gravely. "I have. Twice. But I don't know how I did it. My… friend… was seriously injured and I Healed him," she said carefully. "The first time… I don't remember it at all. I was scared and I panicked and all of a sudden I was filled with this odd sensation of joy and peace and everything made perfect sense," she explained haltingly. "I was unconscious for hours afterward, and I woke up with no memory of Healing him."

"And the second time?" Moiraine asked.

"It was pretty much the same thing," she answered, "but this time I was aware of everything I did. The weaves seemed to flow of their own accord, but I couldn't show you what I did even if I knew how to produce the weaves. And before you ask, yes, he survived, without any apparent ill effects," she added, thinking back on what Egwene had said earlier.

The Aes Sedai appeared to consider this. "What kind of injury did your… friend… sustain?" she asked eventually.

"Does it matter?" Neya countered defensively before cursing herself for a fool. She needed the woman's help. There was no sense in antagonising her. She took a deep, calming breath. "Sorry. He got burned the first time and was stabbed a few months later. It was certainly more than a scratch or a bruise," she said wryly.

"I see," Moiraine said noncommittally. "Let us start with the basics. You will try to embrace the Source," she went on. She explained how to do it and, when Neya couldn't work that one out, she described another way to achieve it. It failed again. Neya was becoming quite frustrated. It had been so easy before, when she didn't have to think about what she was doing. Finally, Moiraine told her to stop. "It appears that you have developed a block," she announced quietly. When Neya scowled, she clarified her meaning. "It is a coping mechanism unconsciously developed to avoid the reality of your ability to channel. It's not uncommon among wilders. Self-taught channelers, people who possess the ability inborn and have acquired some sort of control over the Power without formal training," she explained again when Neya opened her mouth.

"But what does it mean, concretely? How do I push past the block? _Can_ I push past it?" Neya asked, already dreading the answer.

Moiraine pursed her lips, reflecting on the matter. "Blocks can be removed, although like the block itself, the method employed to break it depends on the individual. In your case, it is assumed that you can only access the Source when someone has been grievously hurt, or maybe even when that particular person has been hurt. We must therefore find a way to bypass this necessary circumstance," she went on. "In the White Tower, the most common means is to beat the block out of the channeler," she stated conversationally. "Suffering a great shock or traumatic experience has also been known to break down a block. I'm afraid there is no easy way to find out."

Neya stared at her for a long time, pondering this. "So maybe asking the Wise Ones for training wasn't such a bad idea after all," she said with a faint grimace. "They'd probably be happy to beat it out of me. But I won't do that. I don't need to channel. When I do need to, it will mean someone has been injured, so the block won't matter anyway. So why bother?" she asked with a small shrug.

"It is dangerous, but you already know this, I suppose. The risk that you might burn yourself out when you _do_ embrace the Source will be greater, as you have not learned the proper discipline. Your best option would be to accompany me to the White Tower," she said again.

Neya was shaking her head. "I have no intention of becoming an Aes Sedai," was all she said.

"What else would you do? You are what you are, child, and sooner or later this simple fact will catch up with you," Moiraine told her.

"I can become whatever I want to be. I want to travel the world, be my own woman. I don't want a leash," she replied earnestly.

Someone called the Aes Sedai's name outside the room, probably Lan. Moiraine turned to Neya briefly, standing up. "We will talk again, soon. In the meantime, be careful," she cautioned as she left.

* * *

Neya returned to her room afterward, mulling over her conversation with Moiraine on the way back. She decided to ask Natael for advice. After all, despite the fact that he was behaving like a moody, spoiled brat, he was one of the most powerful channelers alive, with the knowledge of the Age of Legends.

As usual, the man was sprawled on his cot, plucking idly at the cords of his harp. He looked as melancholy as she'd ever seen him. "Natael?" she said softly. "Can we talk?" She sat next to him on the cot without waiting for an answer. Obviously annoyed at her interruption, he sighed heavily. He didn't bother to reply, however, and never took his dark, sulking eyes off his harp. "I have a block. I can't embrace the Source whenever I want to. What do you know of such things?" she questioned him.

He sighed again, to make sure she knew how much she was exasperating him. "Not much. Blocks – bars, as we used to call them – were an extremely rare occurrence in my days. There were no such things as wilders back then," he told her. "What kind of bar is it?" he asked after a brief hesitation.

"Moiraine says I can't touch the Source unless someone gets hurt. She also said it might be tied to a specific person, since I've Healed him twice under similar circumstances."

"Ishamael," Natael whispered. Neya nodded. The former Forsaken seemed to consider this. "What an odd relationship you two must have had," he went on in a low voice, speaking almost to himself. "Did he ever tell you why you were there in the first place? I know you held back a lot of information from Lanfear that day," he told her pointedly, meeting her eyes. "How you managed that is beyond me, but you obviously did."

"I don't know either," she said with a small shrug. "To answer your question, he told me once that fate had brought us together. That's all he ever said on the subject."

Natael surprised her by letting out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "That was always his favourite justification," he said with a sneer. "He did a great many things on a whim, Ishamael did. When we inquired about them, he would say it was meant to be, that it was _fated_ , or that it was the will of the Pattern," he said disdainfully. "I suspect he had no idea why he did anything, most of the time."

Neya smiled fondly. "I suspect you are right. But back to the matter at hand," she prompted him.

"I told you, girl, I don't know much about bars. I can't help you, even if I wanted to, and I'm not sure I do," he said before she could go on. Just like that, he was all gloomy again. Light, but the man could be irritating! His mood seemed to change every other minute. Was he mad, like Elan? And Lanfear, for that matter. Maybe spending millennia confined in Shayol Ghul had addled the Forsaken's brains.

It seems that she would have to deal with the block on her own. There was no way she would go to the Wise Ones for help. She would never let anyone hurt her again, not if she could prevent it.

Natael had begun to play, a doleful lament she thought she had heard before. Elan hadn't known many joyful tunes. Light, how she missed him.


	19. The night is dark and full of terrors

Over the next few days, Neya divided her time between sparring with Lan, catching up with Mat and learning the Aiel ways. The man who had first brought her to the Wise Ones, Azim, a Taardad Aiel of the _Far Aldazar Din_ warrior society and Bloody Water Sept, had taken her under his wing on her third day in Rhuidean, coaching her in Aiel etiquette and instructing her in their many customs. She knew the man was infatuated with her and she thought it best to make it clear from the start that the feeling wasn't reciprocated, but Azim had laughed it off, claiming that the chase was half the fun anyway. He proved to be extremely stubborn, but she couldn't give in, no matter how much she might want to. He was tall, of course, and rather handsome, with short, dark red hair and an irresistible smile.

But she had to maintain her pretense with Natael. And in any case, she couldn't risk getting too close to him. Lanfear had made no appearance since the day she had abandoned Neya in the Waste, but who knew when she would be back? She could turn up at any moment. Neya didn't want to put anyone in unnecessary danger; the Light knew that there was enough of that to go around without adding a Forsaken in the mix. The Waste was an incredibly dangerous place. She had lost count of the number of people who had been injured in her short time here. She had taken these opportunities to attempt to channel, but when the Wise Ones weren't flat refusing – that's to say when they weren't around – she still couldn't embrace the Source, no matter how hard she tried, not matter how dire the injury. It was all very frustrating.

She hadn't talked to Moiraine again, had in fact been avoiding the Aes Sedai altogether. She didn't need another lecture about the necessity of her going to the White Tower. She hadn't seen much of Egwene, either. The Wise Ones were keeping her busy, day and night it seemed. Rand spent most of his time discussing with the clan chiefs and practicing the sword and spear. She even sparred with him a couple of times. They rarely talked, however, and when they did, most of their conversations concerned whatever scraps of information Elan or Lanfear might have given her regarding the other Forsaken and their whereabouts.

Slowly but steadily, she even managed to get a little closer to Natael. Rand had decided that they should share a room, just the two of them, to avoid any suspicion, although they didn't actually share a bed, of course. Rand said he trusted Neya to keep an eye on him.

The one-time Forsaken usually chatted with her in a relatively cordial way, at least until he grew bored and sulky again. They talked about the Age of Legends, about music. He was more open than Elan had been about the other Forsaken, often spilling poison on his former cronies with fierce bitterness. When they were seen together in public, he was surprisingly good at playing the charming lover. She had thought that alone would deter Azim in his endeavours to woe her, but the Aiel only seemed more determined. He was disdainful of the gleeman and joked that she would become bored with him soon enough, when she realised she wanted a real man. _Men_ , Neya thought wonderingly. _L_ _ove them or hate them, you can never understand them._

The Aiel often demanded that the gleeman play for them in the evenings, after the heat of the day had subsided, and Natael sometimes consented to entertain them with a few songs, seemingly reluctant, although he always ended up playing late into the night.

It was good to be around people again. Neya made a point of enjoying herself as much as possible. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, especially with the kind of company she kept. If she'd learned anything in her few years of existence, it was that good things never lasted.

* * *

She woke up in the night, sweating despite the cold. Something was wrong.

She thought she heard a faint growl, but she couldn't make out its origin in the absolute darkness of the room. Natael was muttering in his sleep, on the other side of the room; she could hear him trashing in his blankets. The growl intensified for a moment, as if whatever was making the noise had moved closer to her. The room reeked of burned sulphur. The first thing that came to her mind was that it had to be some kind of Shadowspawn. But why wasn't it making a move? It seemed to simply stand there. Her practice sword lay just beside the bed, but how was she supposed to fight whatever it was if she could not see it? Should she scream, cry for help? Would Natael be able to get rid of it if he was awake? She dared not move. She simply lay there, barely breathing, waiting for whatever would come next.

Nothing happened. After a few minutes she felt the thing – things? – shift in the shadows and a moment later the growling faded away completely. The sharp, unpleasant smell remained, however. More time passed before she could make herself move. Slowly, carefully, she made her way to Natael's cot, not daring to light a candle. It might attract unwanted attention to the fact that she was awake.

She crouched next to the gleeman. "Jay?" she whispered. "Wake up. Natael!" she said a little louder, placing her hand where she thought his shoulder should be. He woke up with a start. A ball of light abruptly appeared near his face and she blinked rapidly in the sudden glare.

"Darkness within! What are you doing?" he muttered irritatingly. "It's the middle of the night!"

"Thank you for pointing that out, I hadn't noticed," she told him wryly. "There was… something… in the room. It's gone now, I think," she went on, "but it could come back. Can't you smell it?"

She saw his nose twitch once. His eyes widened in horror. "Darkhounds," he murmured. His face had gone pale and she heard him swallow distinctly. They heard footsteps coming from outside. "Move," he commanded, pushing her out of his way as he got up. "Stay behind me," he ordered again. _How sweet_ , Neya thought amusedly.

Rand stepped into the room, bringing more light with him. He looked dishevelled, although his face remained impassive. "Oh, good. You're both alright," he said in a low voice. Suddenly his eyes focused on something on the floor. Large paw prints. They seemed to be etched into the stone. She stared at them in wonder. "Darkhounds," Rand said matter-of-factly, confirming Natael's fear. "Did you destroy them?" he asked the gleeman.

The older man shook his head slowly. "I didn't even see them. She just awakened me," he explained, gesturing toward Neya. Rand turned to face her, eyeing her expectantly.

"I heard something growl but I couldn't make out anything. It left after a few minutes," she told him.

Rand studied her a moment longer, then shrugged. "Well, they're gone now. I've handled the others. I'll deal with these too, if they come back." He focused on the prints once more and, a second later, they were gone. Without another word, he turned on his heels and departed.

In a daze, she stood staring at the now-smooth floor for a long time. "Are you alright?" Natael asked suddenly. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She'd forgotten he was there. "You're trembling."

Neya blinked once, coming out of her trance. She cleared her throat roughly. "I'm fine. Just cold," she muttered. "I'll go back to bed now. Good night," she told him. She settled back on the bed. Natael was still standing in the middle of the room, lost in contemplation. "It would be easier to sleep without the light on," she said dryly. She realised she was being nasty, but the episode had shaken her more than she cared to admit. The man didn't say anything as he walked back to his own cot. He extinguished the light a moment later, leaving them both to lie stiffly in the dark until dawn finally arrived.


	20. One does not simply walk into Sindhol

The next morning she learned from Azim that the Shaido had left a week ago and were on their way to the Jangai Pass. Rand promptly announced that they would follow and stop them. As preparations were made, Neya found herself wandering around in the bustle with nothing to do. She didn't have much to pack.

She wondered if the _ter'angreal_ Mat had told her about was still around here somewhere. She had wanted to see it ever since Mat mentioned it, although he had explicitly told her to keep away from it when he saw her eyes brightening with interest. He had showed her the scar on his neck, and to most people that would have been enough reason not to inquire any further. But she was not most people.

The curiosity was too strong. She had to see it for herself. She found the peddlers' wagons some time later. Everyone seemed to be occupied and they paid her no attention. Strolling around, looking casual, she finally located the object of her search. It truly was an odd relic, ancient and distorted-looking. She scanned the inside of the doorway for any sign of the inhabitants of the realm that lay just a few paces away, but saw nothing. After making certain no one was looking in her direction, she stepped inside.

She now stood in a large, empty hall that seemed built entirely out of glass or some similar material. She took a good look around, searching for the Eelfinn or Aelfinn – any kind of Finn, really – but she was alone. Yet at the same time, she felt uncomfortably aware that she was being observed. The silence seemed to echo eerily in the vast hall. She was reluctant to leave the doorway to explore the place. She decided to draw them to her instead and cleared her throat a little apprehensively.

"Hello?" she called out in the emptiness. She used the Old Tongue. Mat said they used it with him – although apparently he hadn't realised it at the time.

The rasping answer came from behind her. "You're not supposed to be here, human child."

She whirled, nearly falling over in her haste. It – he? – stood only a few paces away from her. She hadn't heard him approach. He looked exactly the way Mat had described them. An Eelfinn. He towered over her, a broad-shouldered man with a markedly narrower waist. His mane of red hair stood stiffly on his head and descended well below his shoulders. He frowned at her, looking contrite, but said nothing else.

She had to clear her throat once more. "Hello," she repeated. "Master Fox. Can I call you that, or do you have a proper name I can use?" She was rambling. Taking a deep breath, she went on in a more composed voice. "My name is Neya al'Kane. I abide by the treaties and agreements of old and carry no iron, light-making device or instrument of music. I have come to bargain." It seemed the best thing to say, according to what Mat had told her of his own encounters. It wasn't that complicated, when you thought about it. She simply had to do the exact opposite of what her brother had done: be smart, ask for the price _before_ sealing the bargain and not get killed. What could possibly go wrong?

The Finn blinked at her once. "You're not supposed to be here," he repeated roughly.

She stared at him in confusion. "I thought you knew everything. Didn't you know I would be coming?"

"You're not–"

"–supposed to be here, yes, thank you, I heard you the first two times," she said irritably. "If you don't want me here, I won't take any more of your time. I'll just be on my way." Feeling disappointed, she turned back to the _ter'angreal_.

"No!" the Fox cried, suddenly looming in front of her, hands half-raised almost imploringly. "No, you must not leave. Come. I will take you where you may find what you need."

Abruptly, he leaned forward, sniffing at her. When he retreated a moment later, his odd pupils were dilated. He was grinning widely, showing teeth. Very sharp-looking teeth. "Is that some kind of greeting ritual? Am I supposed to sniff you too?" she asked him, giggling nervously.

He made no reply. "Come," he said instead, softly, almost caressingly, eyes half-closed. He gestured with one hand and started forward.

They walked for a long time, although it was difficult to estimate exactly how long. They passed halls and empty rooms that all looked the same. She would never find her way back to the doorway without help. It was quite clever of them. It meant that she would have to sacrifice one of her requests to demand to be escorted safely back to the _ter'angreal_.

She was too edgy to remain silent. She pestered him with questions the whole time they were walking. "Do you have a name or not?" she asked the Eelfinn. He said nothing, staring ahead intently. "How long has passed since I've been here? It's hard to tell, you know." He made no reply whatsoever. "How many of you are there? Do the Snakes live here too? The Aelfinn, I mean? Or is it another world altogether?" She went on and on, barely aware that Master Fox – he hadn't provided any other name, so she stuck to that, in her head at least – never answered her or even acknowledged her questions. At least it passed the time. She was becoming more restless by the minute. Or whatever passed for a minute in this Light-forsaken place.

Finally her guide stopped in front of another vast, apparently empty room. It looked pretty much the same as every other room they'd just walked by. He stretched a long, white hand toward the centre of the room. Neya approached it carefully, scanning the shadows for more Finns. She couldn't make out anyone – or anything – on the pedestals. She turned around to inspect the rest of the room, but there was nothing else to see. She whirled back once more and suddenly there were people filling the previously empty pedestals. More Foxes. Some were obviously females, others males. She took a deep breath, fixing one of the Eelfinn in the eyes. "My name is Neya al'Kane," she began.

"You're not supposed to be here," one of the females said with a low growl. The words were echoed by several of her associates.

Neya rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I've heard that one before," she said wryly. "If you tell me I've walked for hours in this bloody maze just to be sent back out again, it won't go well for you," she went on with a snarl.

They seemed to consider her words attentively, as if deciding whether she was bluffing or not. At last the first female met her eyes. "You may speak, human child. Tell us what you need."

"First of all, I'd like to discuss the matter of payment," she told them. "What is it you want from me in exchange for the fulfilment of my requests?"

They all seemed frozen in place. She caught several muttered words. _Pain_. _Fear_. _Power._ She was about to repeat herself to get a clear answer when one of the males spoke. "The price will depend on your demands, Lightbringer."

_Lightbringer_ _?_ Neya scowled slightly. _What is_ that _supposed to mean?_ Shaking her head, she put the thought out of her mind. She had to stay focused. Her life literally depended on it. She told them what she wanted. It was the only real demand she would make. She had to retain the other two requests to get herself out of here in one piece.

"Done," came the answer from a dozen throats. They waited for her to continue.

"I need to be guided quickly back where I came from, to the _ter'angreal_ , alive and unharmed, as soon as you give me what I want and the price has been paid," she went on.

She sensed a little hesitation from the Eelfinn. Then, "Done."

"I need to know what the price for these demands is before I agree to pay it," she continued, "and before you do anything that might require a price," she finished smugly.

They remained silent for a long time, so long that she was starting to wonder if she'd missed something. They were likely just trying to find a loophole, but the wait seemed interminable. She realised that she was holding her breath and let it out as evenly as she could.

"Done," they muttered eventually, all at once. They were silent for a long moment. "For these demands, the price is your innocence, human child."

Neya burst out laughing. "My _innocence_?" She almost choked on the words. "I'm afraid you're too late for that," she told them wryly. "You really don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked in a puzzled voice. The way Mat explained it, they had seemed to know everything about him, even his future. Or maybe that had been the Snakes? She couldn't remember.

They stared at her blankly. "The price has been set. Do we have a bargain, Lightbringer?" one of the males whispered roughly.

She didn't understand. Could they simply _harvest_ her innocence, somehow – or whatever was left of it? They said they wanted pain and fear and… power? Was this going to hurt her? It seemed improbable. Well, it didn't matter. If she could get away with what she wanted in exchange for something she'd lost a long time ago, she was not about to refuse. She nodded slowly. "Yes, we have a bargain."

The Fox was on her before the last word was completely out of her mouth.


	21. Life's greatest illusion

Neya looked around the room, feeling dazed. The Fox who had guided her from the doorway was sprawled on the floor, looking utterly overwhelmed with ecstasy, eyes staring blindly at nothing, mouth hanging open. The others were all moaning and grunting. Some were lying on the floor and she saw a few of them copulating frantically. _Charming_ , she thought bitterly. She turned back to her aggressor. "You're supposed to guide me out of here, now," she told him – _it_ , she amended fiercely. How could she have ever thought them to be even remotely human?

The Finn didn't respond, didn't move. She crouched near it, snapping her fingers in front of its eyes. No reaction. "Burn you, you son of a bloody goat!" she shouted at it. "The bargain was sealed with the price agreed upon. Now get me out of here!" Abandoning all pretence at civility, she punched it straight in its foxy nose. There was a loud cracking noise. It blinked once, obviously struggling to focus on her. "Get… me… out of here!" she hissed at it once more. When it didn't comply, she pulled her fist back for another punch.

Suddenly it was moving, fumbling to stand. It stumbled, looking intoxicated. Without a word he clasped her arm and dragged her out of the room. They left the others to their maniacal mating, their grunts and growls soon receding.

She walked in silence this time.

* * *

They reached the doorway after a while. She wasn't sure if it had taken quite so long as the inward journey. The bloody Fox simply stood next to the _ter'angreal_ , waiting for her to depart. It was staring at her. Shame and humiliation filled her to brimming.

The Eelfinn had slammed into her, bringing both of them down on the floor and tearing her clothes apart greedily. At least it hadn't lasted long, although she would have been hard pressed to say exactly how long. And there had been pain, alright, more than she thought she'd bargained for. To be fair, she hadn't been sure what to expect at all, but it certainly wasn't that.

Afterward, the Fox had fallen over her like a dead weight and she'd had to push it off before it crushed her. It had been panting hard, letting out small moans of pleasure that sounded almost like yowls of pain.

Now her clothes were ripped to shreds, barely clinging to her. She had bled, and not a little. Blood marred the legs of what was left of her breeches and had pooled in her boots. She felt numb. She couldn't decide whether it was worth it, especially since she didn't know if what she'd asked for had been granted.

The Fox was staring at her hungrily. Its lips were parted and its eyes shone brightly in the dimness of the room. It was sniffing the air and appeared to be wondering if it could get away with another round. "That would be against the bargain, you flaming goat-spawned toad. No harm after the price has been paid, we agreed on that," she told it fiercely. It blinked in surprise but didn't speak. Wondering how she was going to get away with this – Light, Mat would kill her if he found out – she stepped back into the real world.

* * *

She emerged inside one of the wagons. There was a piece of canvas around the doorway. Had they left Rhuidean already? Light, how long had she been in there? Shaking her head at the futility of her questions, she eyed the remains of her clothes. She looked as though she had been lost in the woods for days, attacked by a rabid wolf and then caught unexpectedly by her monthly bleeding. In short, she was a mess. There was no way she could get out of here and make her way back to her room undetected. And that was even assuming that they were still in the Aiel city.

There was nothing for it. She couldn't simply hide in the wagon until it reached Tar Valon. Steeling herself, she lifted a piece of canvas to peek outside. It was night. Could she really have been in there all day? She saw no one, but that didn't mean no one was there. Aiel were extremely good at fading in the background.

Numbness was progressively retreating and being replaced by pain. Gritting her teeth, she stepped out of the wagon gingerly and took a good look around. They were not in Rhuidean anymore, that much was certain, although they were still clearly in the Waste. A sudden movement on her right caught her attention. The man-high shadow slowly resolved into Mat. A scowling, furious-looking Mat.

"I _knew_ it!" he exclaimed. "I bloody well knew it!" he shouted again. "What were you thinking? I told you they were dangerous! Look at you!" he said, then blinked, as if he was only just now seeing her properly. His eyes widened at the sight of her. "Blood and ashes," he whispered. "What did they do to you?" he asked her, concern plain on his face.

"Nothing," she told him, then bit her lip in exasperation. "I'm fine," she amended quickly, before he had time to speak. "It's just a little blood. I need to clean myself up a bit, is all," she told him as nonchalantly as she could.

He glared at her, obviously not satisfied with her answer. "Do you know how long you've been in there?" he demanded, voice tight with anger. "Ten days!" he said before she could open her mouth. "Ten _bloody_ days! Curse me for a fool, I should never have told you about the flaming thing," he went on. "You could have died, Neya." He met her eyes. He looked more serious than she'd ever seen him.

She realised she was crying. Hot tears were rolling down her cheeks. She closed her eyes, trying to hold them inside. _Curse_ me _for a fool_ , she thought bitterly. "Mat, I need to wash. Please," she whispered. She opened her eyes, looking at him pleadingly.

His face softened. He cleared his throat roughly, looking away. "Come on. I'll take you to your tent. Well, to mine. It seems Natael quickly found a replacement for you," he said with a grimace. She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but at the moment, that was the last thing on her mind.

They walked in silence. They passed several Aiel, thankfully none she recognised. They all gave her curious glances. Mat stopped in front of a tent, drawing back the canvas for her. He told her to wash up, and that he would be back soon with some clean clothes.

* * *

It took her a long time to clear all the blood from her skin and she still felt dirty even after she was done. She longed for a good soak in steaming water, although she was starting to think nothing would ever make her feel clean again. Mat came back half an hour later with fresh clothes, borrowed from Egwene.

The girl herself was trailing him, looking concerned. She sat down next to her in the tent. "Are you alright?" It was clear from her tone that she knew she wasn't. "Mat," she said without looking at him, "give us a moment, would you?" She heard him huff in exasperation but he left them without a word. "What happened? Mat wouldn't say."

"I'm sorry, Eggs. I can't tell you," Neya replied, feeling her cheeks burn with shame. If she had her way, no one would ever know what had transpired in the Eelfinn's lair. "What's going on here?" she asked quickly, desperate to change the subject.

Egwene eyed her sadly. "I remember a time when we told each other everything," she murmured ruefully. "We left Rhuidean ten days ago – after searching the whole city for an hour to find you. Rand was furious. Nothing happened, really. We haven't caught up to the Shaido yet," she told Neya.

"Where's Natael? Mat said he–"

"That _lecher_!" Egwene cursed, outrage marring her face. Neya flinched at the vehemence in her voice. "You were gone two days – _two days!_ – and already that _hussy_ was sharing his tent!" she went on fiercely.

"Hussy? What hussy?" Neya asked in a puzzled voice. She had no idea who that could be. No one had appeared to express any particular interest in Natael before.

"Isendre," Egwene replied scornfully, putting enough venom in the name to fill a dozen _gara_.

Neya's eyebrows climbed up in unfeigned surprise. "Oh, _that_ hussy," she said with a weak chuckle. She felt… well, not jealous, exactly; after all, the man was _not_ her lover. Disappointed, perhaps. She couldn't imagine a worst replacement. Sorilea would have made a better one.

They spent some time deprecating Natael and his new conquest, until Mat finally announced that he would like to get some sleep, if they wouldn't mind too bloody much. Apparently, he had been keeping watch near the wagon for the last ten days. He told her she could sleep here if she wanted. Neya bid Egwene good night, thanking her for staying around, then she crashed on some cushions and fell blissfully asleep.


	22. This chaos, it defies imagination

Neya woke up the next morning feeling as if she'd been trampled by a horse. Everything hurt. She winced in remembrance. It seemed even worse in hindsight. How could she have been so stupid? She sat up with a groan. Mat was gone from the tent but she could hear bustle outside. She drank some water from a nearby pitcher and stood up reluctantly, grimacing in pain.

Everybody was preparing for departure. She spotted Mat not far ahead. He was apparently arguing with Melindhra. The blond woman saw Neya and gave her a nasty look before stalking away. Mat called after her but she didn't turn back. Neya joined him. "I hope that wasn't about me," she said timidly.

Mat shook his head and she heard him mutter a few curses under his breath. "Don't mind her. We need to get ready. We're running late already. I didn't want to wake you," he told her. "You snored," he added with a grin. Count on Mat to bring that up now. At least he wasn't mad at her anymore.

They packed up the tent quickly and were soon joined by Azim. The Aiel eyed her up and down, as if to make sure she was in one piece. He seemed relieved to see her. He made some jokes about her sudden disappearance then subtly mentioned that his tent could hold two people, if she needed a place to sleep. She smiled at him, grateful for his easy manner and genuine concern. Mat scowled at him the whole time, of course.

* * *

She was back! He was overjoyed, he didn't mind admitting, if only to himself. It would be improper to appear that way where everyone could see, but feigning only a casual interest had been difficult. He had to talk to her, and soon. He _had_ to. These last few days, when he thought she was gone for good, had been the worst as far as he could remember. He had no idea where she'd gone or why, but he didn't care. It didn't matter. She was there, and Leafblighter take him if he would let her out of his sight again.

That night he made his way to Matrim Cauthon's tent, where Neya al'Kane had apparently settled for the time being. The two of them were playing a game of dice with some _Sha'mad Conde_ at a nearby fire. Of course, Melindhra was there as well. The way she clung to Neya al'Kane's brother was disturbing to say the least. He had never seen one of _Far Dareis Mai_ act like that.

"May I join you?" he asked around as he neared the fire.

The other Aiel nodded unconcernedly, but Matrim Cauthon got up. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night," he said with an obviously fake yawn. Melindhra almost jumped on her feet after him. One of the other players hid a smirk behind his hand. "What about you?" he asked his sister. Melindhra sighed in annoyance.

"I'll stay a while longer. Don't wait up on me," she told him wryly.

Azim took up the place her brother had just vacated. "I'm not sure why you keep playing this game, Neya al'Kane. You always end up losing." She did, even when her brother was not around.

She shrugged lightly. "Well, you always end up giving me back whatever I lost, so it doesn't really matter," she replied with a grin. Of course he gave it all back. She would be left with nothing but her skin if he didn't. It was a good thing that he didn't blush easily, because simply thinking of her that way made his blood boil. He found it difficult to control his thoughts when she was around. She turned his mind upside down without even trying.

They played for another hour, until the _Sha'mad Conde_ decided to call it a night. Neya al'Kane lost everything she wagered, as usual, but thankfully Azim won most of it back from the others. After they departed, she tried to tell him to keep his winnings to himself, as she always did, but he insisted on giving it all back. "You can sleep in my tent, if you want," he offered once more when he had successfully returned every item to her care. "It sounded like Melindhra and your brother would be occupied for a while. I can share a tent with one of my own brothers."

She looked up at him with that irresistible smile of hers. "Alright, you win. Show me where it is."

When they reached it, he lifted the tent flap open for her and followed her inside. "I must take some things with me. I will not be long," he told her. If he was going to talk to her, seriously for once, now was the time. He turned to face her. She was already sitting on the pallet, so he crouched in front of her. "Neya al'Kane," he said gravely, "it seems that your relationship with Jasin Natael is over."

"Oh, what makes you think that?" she asked him wryly.

"In light of that, will you perhaps reconsider my previous offer?" he went on hopefully. He should be more subtle, but he wasn't sure what else to say. How did one go about these things?

She had always countered his past attempts with good humour, but she wasn't smiling now. Had he been too forward? Had he angered her? She wasn't as easy to read as he used to think.

Just when he thought she wasn't going to answer at all, she moved closer to him and kissed him, so fiercely that they both ended up sprawled on the ground. It wasn't long before all lucid thinking deserted him.

* * *

She didn't see Natael at all during the next few days. She thought she glimpsed him once or twice, his fancy, silver-embroidered clothes and gleeman cloak standing out among the Aiel _cadin'sor_. She found she didn't have to pretend to be resentful at having been 'replaced' so quickly, by Isendre of all people.

Rand came to her the morning after she returned, asking if Lanfear had anything to do with her disappearance. She told him where she'd gone and he gave her a puzzled look. He was the one who had detached Mat from _Avendesora_ ; he wouldn't expect anyone to go through the archway willingly. Thankfully, he didn't inquire as to what had happened inside the _ter'angreal_ and simply left it at that. He made no mention of Natael and Isendre, so Neya assumed he either didn't know or didn't care.

They arrived near Taien on the third day after her return. The town had been devastated by the Shaido. Bloated bodies hung from the outer walls, where vultures made a feast of the dead's remains. Neya looked at them with a pang of sorrow, but there was nothing she could have done, even if she had been able to embrace the Source.

That night, as she lay asleep besides Azim in their tent – she hadn't given much thought to the new turn their relationship had taken; it had seemed perfectly natural at the time – she heard a blackbird call out in the night. That was strange. She hadn't picked up any familiar birdcalls since Lanfear had dropped her in the Waste.

Suddenly, there was a vast commotion outside and she was on her feet before she knew it, grabbing one of Azim's spears. Azim was already up and armed.

Chaos had broken loose in the night. There were fires in several places. She saw Aiel fighting other Aiel as well as men and women dressed like westerners. She also spotted several… creatures… nearby. Were those Trollocs? Two of the beasts caught sight of them and charged, their distorted animal heads looking fierce in the faint glow of the fires. She stepped aside lightly at the last moment, bringing the spear backward in one smooth motion to skewer the one closest to her as Azim did for the other one. She called out to him that she had to make sure her brother was alright and fought several more Trollocs on her way to Mat's tent. Azim remained behind to assist some members of his sept who seemed to be taking on another Shadowspawn. He didn't once try to stop her or question her ability to survive amidst the confusion and she was grateful for that.

She and Mat met halfway; obviously he'd had the same idea. They fought back to back until the flow of enemies finally dwindled. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, Aiel and Trollocs and Darkfriends all heaped together. _What a mess_ , she thought dazedly. _W_ _hat a waste_.

Mat was panting hard, his face covered with sweat and blood – not his, thankfully. She likely looked just as bad. "We should make sure Egwene and Rand are safe," she told her brother when she'd gotten her breath back. He nodded warily, cursing under his breath. She suspected he would have cursed out loud, if he'd had any breath to spare.

They found Egwene near Rand's tent, looking more angry than scared. The Aiel woman who always followed Rand around, Aviendha, was also there. Apparently, Rand had done something stupid. Which was hardly surprising, Egwene added viciously. In any case, they seemed to be unhurt, so Mat and Neya took their leave. She wanted to check on Natael but knew that Rand would have made sure the man was safe. Mat grumbled that he had to go back to Melindhra and Neya nodded absent-mindedly. She should find Azim, although she wasn't particularly worried about him. He was Aiel, after all, and she'd seen him fight against Lan on several occasions. They were evenly matched.

She wandered around for a long time before she finally found him. He lay half-buried under a dead Trolloc, his once-vibrant blue eyes already glazed over. She checked his pulse, knowing it was useless. Suddenly, she felt exhausted. She sat down on the ground next to him, staring at nothing.

Lan crouched next to her some time later and asked her if she was hurt, but she barely heard him. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her back to Azim's tent. _Our tent_ , she thought numbly. He laid her on the pallet and she drifted off to sleep.

She slept fitfully, waking several times during the night. The Trollocs kept swarming over Azim and, every time, she was too late to save him. His blue eyes glared at her reproachfully. The Trollocs all looked like oversized, distorted foxes.

* * *

Despite the events of the previous night, they made good time the following day. When Rand finally allowed them to stop for the night, she did a quick wash-up before stepping out once more. She met Isendre on the way and the tall, gorgeous woman gave her a condescending sneer. Neya shot her back her most winning smile and was gratified to see the stupefaction on her face.

She found Lan taking care of his warhorse not far from Moiraine's tent. The huge animal – Mandarb, she thought it was called – nickered casually as she reached them, causing the Warder to whirl around, hand on the hilt of his sword. She grinned at him. Visibly, he hadn't heard her approach. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Thank you for carrying me back to my tent yesterday," she told him softly.

"You would have frozen out there," he replied matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry about your friend," he went on. "He was a good man." He seemed to be done with the horse. "If you've come to practice–"

"No, not at all," she interrupted him quickly. "I think I've had quite enough of that, thank you," she went on with a grimace. "Can we just… talk?" she asked him a little timidly, indicating the small fire he'd laid out. He gave her the tiniest frown but said nothing, simply sitting down and gesturing for her to do the same. He waited for her to speak.

She realised he wasn't the best person with whom to have a conversation, but he was all she had at the moment. She simply couldn't face to spend the rest of the evening on her own, alone in Azim's tent. Melindhra had dragged Mat back to her tent as soon as he'd finished eating and Egwene was serving the Wise Ones. Rand… She didn't even know where he was. She didn't really want to talk to him, in any case. Natael was out of the question, of course. At least Lan appeared to listen when she talked.

"I don't want to talk about anything in particular," she said. "I just need some distraction." He nodded. She could talk if she wanted, but the man certainly wasn't going to start the conversation. She cast about for a likely topic. "Why do the Aiel call you _Aan'allein_?" She knew it translated literally as 'One Man', but what did it mean about the Warder? "I could have asked them, I suppose, but I find it improper to question other people about someone else's life. At least you're free to decide whether to tell me or not," she explained.

Contemplating the fire, he didn't answer right away. "What do you know of Malkier?" he asked her eventually.

She'd read about Malkier and how it had been swallowed by the Blight. It had been a fairly recent book, perhaps the latest addition to Elan's library, and it also recounted the Aiel War. "About everything a southerner might know." His eyes widened in surprise. She gave him a sheepish smile. "I read about it somewhere. You're al'Lan Mandragoran," she whispered. The last survivor of Malkier's royal line. If his land still existed, he would be king. He nodded once, slowly, obviously startled that she'd figured it out so quickly. She cleared her throat. This wasn't a good subject of conversation.

"What about you?" he asked suddenly.

She looked up at him, frowning. "Me?" she repeated. "What about me?"

"You know my story. What's yours?" He was a man of few words.

"There's not much to tell," she said after a brief hesitation. "I come from _ta'veren_ land, a place formerly known as the Two Rivers," she began with a small grin, "and I'm Mat's sister. Adopted sister," she amended reluctantly. Mat may not be her blood kin, but for all intents and purposes, he _was_ her brother. "I'm just a regular country girl, really. Not much to tell," she said again. She couldn't tell him more than that. Rand had said to be wary of Moiraine, and Lan would certainly report anything Neya told him.

He seemed to consider that for a moment. "Who taught you the sword?" he asked eventually.

"Jay," she muttered, thinking fast. She couldn't very well tell the Warder that Ishamael himself had been her mentor, could she?

"The gleeman?" he repeated with a slight frown. "I had no idea he was a swordsman."

"Well, you wouldn't know. He doesn't practice very often." Truth be told, she had no inkling whether or not the former Forsaken could wield a blade.

Moiraine appeared at that moment, as cool as ever. "A word, _Gaidin_?" she asked Lan, indicating her tent. The Warder was already on his feet.

Neya got up as well. "I'll leave you to it. Thank you, _Dai Shan_ ," she said once more, bowing her head to Lan. That was a Malkieri title. It meant 'battle lord'. She ignored the Aes Sedai entirely – she didn't need another lecture about the necessity of her training in the White Tower – and departed. It seemed she would have to keep herself company after all.


	23. Women are not meant to be understood

Four days after the attack, they finally emerged on the other side of the Jangai Pass, where the Shaido had laid waste on a town called Selean. Two days later, Isendre was reported missing by some angry Maidens of the Spear. Neya thought she ought to be happy about that, but couldn't summon enough energy to gloat. Besides, she was fairly certain the woman must have suffered a terrible fate. Lanfear had told her she was a Darkfriend, just like the peddler, Harnan Kadere.

That night Natael came to her tent. He didn't ask for her permission to enter; he simply stepped in and sprawled down on her pallet. She stared at him from the other end of the tent, where she sat on a fluffy cushion, the book she was reading entirely forgotten in her hands. What was the man thinking? That he could just pick up where he left off, as if nothing had happened? She was momentarily stunned speechless. He didn't say anything, just produced his harp and started to play a mournful tune, looking his usual gloomy self.

Abruptly Neya stood up, closed the short distance between them, and slapped him, so hard that her hand stung. He looked up at her in shock. "What do you think you're doing?" she shouted. "You think you can tumble that strumpet and just waltz back in as if nothing had happened the moment she's gone? Who do you take me for?" she spat at him. "You bloody son of a flaming goat!" She slapped him again, for good measure. "Get the hell out of here," she said, pointing at the tent flap.

Natael swallowed, putting a hand on his reddening cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. "Don't bother," she warned him in a dangerous voice. He got up, stepping around her carefully before exiting.

* * *

The next day several Maidens nodded approvingly to Neya in passing, some of them grinning. It seemed that she had yelled louder than intended. Come to think of it, she hadn't meant to shout at all. She had been baffled by the man's sudden reappearance in her life and outraged at his lack of manners, but surely none of it had earned him those slaps. If he wanted to sleep with other women, that was his business. She simply wished he had been more discreet.

He came back later that night, this time calling out from outside and even waiting for her assent before entering. She almost refused, partly because she didn't know how she felt at the moment, and partly because she was a little embarrassed by her outburst of the previous night.

Natael stepped inside and eyed her warily before sitting down on the pallet. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry." The words seemed to be ripped out of him, but he sounded sincere. "I'm not entirely certain why you're mad at me, but whatever it is, I'm sorry. I don't suppose it was all just an act, by any chance? To keep up appearances?" he asked dubiously. Neya shook her head mutely. "I see. Perhaps you were simply trying to get back at me for making you look bad?" She shook her head once more. He went on in a slightly irritated tone. "Then why? We are _not_ lovers. You know that, yes?"

"I don't know why," she replied truthfully. "There's been a lot going on lately. Selean, Taien, the Shadowspawn attack…" Her voice cracked a little at that. She took a deep breath before continuing. "I'm not angry at you in particular, I'm angry at everything and everyone. So much pain, so much pointless violence. As if the prospect of _Tarmon Gai'don_ was not enough," she murmured.

"I see. You're mad at the world and decided to slap me to make yourself feel better about the unfairness of it all. Is that correct?"

"Pretty much," she answered with a small grin.

He chuckled darkly. "My cheek stung for the rest of the night, you know," he told her accusingly.

"You have such a delicate disposition," she told him teasingly.

They were silent for a moment. "May I?" he asked eventually, unstrapping his harp.

She nodded, settling back on the cushions. "Can you play _Odyssey of the Fireflies_?" His eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing, instead launching into the first accords of the requested tune.

* * *

She fell asleep at some point, and woke up to find Natael still sprawled on the cot, snoring softly. She put a hand on his shoulder to wake him and, together, they packed up her tent in silence. Everyone eyed them askew when they stepped out and some passing Maidens shook their heads in disbelief. Neya didn't pay them any attention. Mat scowled darkly at the gleeman as he joined her for breakfast and she gave him a shrug and a grin, which seemed to suffice. Her brother never held a grudge for very long.

Egwene gave her such a disapproving look when Natael suddenly reappeared by her side that she didn't have the heart to talk to her. In any case, she seemed as busy as ever with her tasks as apprentice.

Natael took to riding next to her so they could talk, and talk they did. He was much more amiable now than he used to be, back in Rhuidean. They spent most of that first day speculating on what had befallen Isendre and eventually agreed that she must have been killed. It seemed improbable that the woman could have escaped the Maidens long enough to run away to safety. Lanfear or another Forsaken likely had a hand in this.

Her curiosity got the better of her. "Why her?" she asked him. "I mean, obviously she was beautiful and all that, but still," she went on derisively. "Even you could do better than that."

He didn't say anything for a moment. She was beginning to think she'd vexed him when he finally spoke. "I thought Lanfear had taken you," he muttered. "Al'Thor seemed to agree that it was the most plausible option," he went on softly. "As far as we knew, you were dead." She glanced in his direction, but he kept his eyes fixedly on the road ahead. "Isendre showed up in my tent on the second day after we left Rhuidean. She took her clothes off and sat astride me. What was I supposed to do?" he asked her fiercely, finally facing her. "How far was I supposed to go to keep up appearances? Should I have observed a proper period of mourning?" he said sharply, scowling at her.

This was not going as she'd expected. She hadn't meant to accuse him of anything, which she hastened to clarify. "There's no need to be so defensive. I don't care with whom you decide to share your blankets, you know. I was just curious. She seemed so… dull," she finished lamely. That was not the word she had intended to use.

He was silent for a long time. She didn't know what to say to appease him. Why did he become so vehement, all of a sudden? She thought she'd made it clear that it didn't matter what had happened. "Why _did_ you disappear like that, anyway?" he finally asked, glowering at her. "Al'Thor said you weren't with Lanfear, but he didn't tell me where you'd gone."

This was even worse. "Does it matter?" she asked casually. "Look, we both made mistakes. Let's just keep it at that, shall we?" she offered hesitantly.

He didn't reply right away, his face suddenly impassive. "Or better yet, let's not mention any of this ever again," he muttered. She nodded hastily and he slowly regained his composure after that.

They talked about Sammael, arguing as to whether or not he had been the one to commandeer the attack near Taien. She made fun of him for being Rand's standard-bearer and for riding an ass, and he surprised her by sticking his tongue at her, making her giggle involuntarily. He wasn't so bad, for one of the Forsaken. No more than Elan had been, once she got to know him better. Of course, they had both done unspeakable things. When the Last Battle was over, he would likely hang for the unforgivable crimes he'd committed during the War of Power, no matter what help he provided Rand. She was beginning to understand what Elan had tried to explain to her, in that pedantic tone of his. No one was all Light or Shadow, but rather an amalgam of both. In the end, all that truly mattered was the part people chose to act on.

* * *

Soon they reached the outskirts of Cairhien and prepared to battle the encamped Shaido. Egwene and Aviendha, the other apprentice, agreed to fight alongside Rand, using the One Power. Moiraine and the Wise Ones would remain behind and provide what Healing they could. Neya offered to help, even if she couldn't channel, and both she and Natael ended up being recruited to assist the Healers. Neya was still secretly hoping that seeing someone injured would trigger her ability to embrace the Source.

The battle began, and they spent the day running from one Wise One to the next, carrying water or bandages and following Moiraine's sharp instructions. When the fighting finally died down, with the Shaido defeated, they were both exhausted. Nothing had prompted her block to dissolve, not even when people she knew were brought in, some of them on the brink of death. Moiraine had been able to save countless lives, and that made Neya feel all the more frustrated. Later that day, when darkness fell, they learned that Mat himself had killed Couladin, the leader of the Shaido, although her brother didn't seem particularly happy about it.

They entered Cairhien the next day, raising Rand's banners all over the city. Neya and Natael were given a room in the Sun Palace itself, which was vast and richly decorated. Rand seemed to be paying less and less attention to the former Forsaken, apparently trusting him not to do anything stupid, or perhaps trusting Neya to make certain he didn't. They spent the next few days enjoying the comforts of a palace room, and she took her first bath in well over a year, soaking gratefully in the warm water until her fingers were creased. In hindsight, it was astonishing that Elan, who had all the knowledge of the Age of Legends, couldn't have provided even a simple bathtub. All she'd had was the plain washbasin in her bedroom.

The mattress was stuffed with goose feathers and she lay on it for hours, even during the day, relishing its softness. They actually shared the bed, which was excessively large, although neither of them ever really discussed it.

She simply took for granted the fact that Natael didn't think of her that way.


	24. Deliciously unsuspecting

Jasin Natael awoke as a ray of sunshine filtered through the room and fell across his face. He lay there a while longer, luxuriating in the softness of the bed. The girl wasn't there.

He had taken to sleeping in since their arrival in Cairhien a few days past. It must be around noon for the sun to be high enough to reach their room. Sitting up slowly, he let out a yawn and stretched languorously. Neya stood on the balcony, wearing a simple night shift. Did she not realise how enticing she looked? In all fairness, she probably didn't. She was as oblivious as her brother, sometimes.

She'd been taking an incredibly long time soaking in the large copper tube in the next room, the day they arrived in the palace, so long that he'd fallen asleep on the bed. He'd awakened in the middle of the night to find her there, her back to him, but so close that he could have heard her heart beat, if he'd embraced _saidin_. He tried to do that as seldom as possible, these days, to avoid any unnecessary contact with the taint. How truly unnerving it was, to know that he was now subject to it.

After that strange first night, they began sleeping in the bed together, and she seemed to find that perfectly normal. She hadn't even mentioned it, in fact. It was a large bed, granted, but still, he would only need to reach his arm to touch her. He found it… unflattering… that she felt so at ease around him.

He hadn't thought much of her at first, in the early days following her release from Mierin's care. She was annoying, loquacious and incredibly persistent. She never missed an opportunity to call him by any sort of ridiculously cheesy nickname, even when they weren't in public, and she pestered him with thousands of questions, this little girl who talked of what was now called the Age of Legends as if she'd been alive in those days. He had been too busy brooding and reflecting on his predicament to pay her much attention. But as the days went by, and as he was forced to pretend to care for her, on al'Thor's orders, he'd found himself beginning to develop a certain fondness for the girl, with her easy smiles and her candid demeanour. She exuded such radiant effervescence, and she was so genuine.

Unfortunately, it wasn't until she disappeared that he'd noticed how much he'd relied on her presence, as if they were both survivors from a ship wreck that had landed on a strange island populated by primitives. That was a word that fitted the Aiel perfectly, as far as he was concerned. Of course, no one of this Age was particularly sophisticated, but these were odd specimens indeed.

Al'Thor had been furious upon hearing that Neya was gone. The boy seemed convinced that Natael and Lanfear had plotted to have her removed, although when Natael asked him why they would do such a thing, the Dragon Reborn had had no ready answer.

He had begun to think of himself as Natael early in his captivity. It was safer that way. He was less likely to give away any clue as to who he really was. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

The aftermath of his struggle with al'Thor in Rhuidean had been deeply disturbing. The more he reflected on the matter, the less he was able to comprehend it. He had been one of the Chosen for so long that he was having trouble remembering what it was like to be a mere mortal, a part of the common rabble. Mierin's shield only made things worse. He had gone from being one of the most powerful male channelers alive to one of the weakest.

Isendre had appeared two days after they left Rhuidean. It happened exactly as he'd described it before to Neya: the Friend of the Dark had slipped into his tent and simply removed her clothes, then waited for him to proceed, as if she'd had no doubt that he would do as he was supposed to. And, fool that he was, he had obediently fulfilled her expectations.

Obviously, she had been sent to spy on him. That was clear from the start. He could tell from the contempt on her face as he fondled her that she was not enjoying any of this. Well, he would be damned if he didn't get to enjoy himself. Why wouldn't he? There was nothing else for him to do. His former life had been ripped away from him, his immortality and the Great Lord's protection cut out in one swift movement. He could barely channel a trickle of the Power, and what little he had was corrupted. He had never imagined how vile the taint would feel, how _wrong_. He was so used to being one of the most powerful men in the world that he hadn't realised how much he depended on _saidin_. Without it, he was naked, defenceless. He had no other way of taking care of himself. He had always been depressingly inept with a sword – or any sort of physical weapon, really – not that it had ever mattered before. He remembered feeling contemptuous of his former male associates for their obsession with swords, Demandred most of all. Well, the man's real obsession was to destroy Lews Therin. Whether he accomplished that with a sword or another weapon was probably irrelevant at this point.

In any case, it made sense. Lanfear had sent Neya to spy on him, told her to get into his bed, and when Mierin realised her tamed minion had failed to comply, she had been replaced by Isendre and the Great Lord only knew what had happened to Neya.

And then she reappeared, out of the blue, looking the worst for wear. He didn't know what had happened to her and she seemed reluctant to talk about it, even now that they'd made peace. Al'Thor said Mierin wasn't involved, which only made it all the more mysterious. He remembered seeing Neya that morning, with her brown hair all tangled from sleep and her face pale from whatever it was she had been up to. She'd had a haunted air about her, not at all her usual light-hearted self.

He'd wanted to go to her, but that was out of the question. He could see how that would look from everyone else's perspective, what with him cavorting with a thieving woman that was unanimously hated, and that only days after his supposed lover had tragically vanished. He wouldn't be able to approach her as long as Isendre was here. Mierin wouldn't be too pleased with that. At least the girl was alive.

He wasn't sure what had happened to Isendre, not exactly. The woman was certainly dead, of that he had no doubt. As to who had done the killing, or why, he could only guess. Not that it mattered, of course. He was glad to be rid of her, he didn't mind admitting. She had been a more than adequate lover, but incredibly dense. In any case, it meant he was free to approach Neya again. Although it clearly wouldn't be easy, judging by the condemning looks most everyone still gave him.

He supposed he had more or less expected the girl to take him back without a word; they would pretend to make up and it would be as if nothing had ever happened. It was in everyone's best interest. They had been pretending all along, after all. She had no reason to be irate, let alone jealous. Therefore her outburst had come as a shock. After the girl had given him an earful – and two mighty slaps; she was stronger than she looked – he had been more confused than angry. After all, she was the one who'd disappeared in the first place, abandoning him to his sombre fate. He had more right to be angry than she did. The truth was that he hadn't noticed that she cared for him in that way. For that matter, he hadn't realised _he_ cared for her, not until recently.

It really hit him that day after the attack, before Isendre's sudden… departure. Neya was wandering among the corpses, asking around, obviously looking for someone. Al'Thor had just left Natael's tent after their talk of Sammael and his possible implication in the attack. On a whim, he decided to go to her, to make sure she was alright. Before he'd gone ten steps, however, she had stopped dead in her tracks and stumbled to the ground. Apparently, she had found what she'd been looking for, and it wasn't what she expected. It made him hesitate. She sat there for a long time, obviously dazed, her eyes blank, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks. When he finally decided to join her, however, Mandragoran had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to carry her away. Cursing the man under his breath, Natael had gone back to his tent, where Isendre waited for him. She had half-heartedly tried to entice him but he'd finally done what he should have done days ago, what he should have done the first time she had walked into his tent: he had sent her away. He was well aware that he was the most likely cause of her sudden departure, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He was relieved when Neya apologised the next day, almost grateful. They'd spend most of the next few days together, talking and joking, in a much more natural way than they had in Rhuidean. She was her old self once more, delightfully annoying, teasing and sarcastic. She had been very curious about his relation with Ishamael, something she had never mentioned before. It surprised him that Ishamael had told her about it. They hadn't exactly parted in good terms.

It had been well before the War of Power, before the Collapse, when they'd still been known by their former names. He hadn't even earned his third name at the time. He was playing background music in any place that would let him. It was his first time performing in the Ansaline Gardens and he was nervous; it was a prestigious venue, often crowded with all sorts of important people. He had hoped to be noticed by the person that would finally enable him to become the famous musician he was destined to be. Instead, he'd met Elan Morin Tedronai.

He was well over three hundred years old, and already renowned, having earned his third name some fifty years past. He was also very striking, in an elegant way. They'd made eye contact as he was performing and the man had offered to buy him a drink afterward. They spent that night together at Elan's place, and most of the nights that followed. It had been a short, passionate fling, with half their time spent arguing and the other half making up. It had been pleasant, for a while at least. Then Elan had begun to show signs of extreme moodiness and it had all gone downhill from there, ending with Natael making a spectacular scene in – ironically enough – the Ansaline Gardens. He hadn't seen the man again until he'd decided to join the Shadow, and Ishamael – calling him Elan would have been a grave mistake at that point – had been quick to point out that anything that had happened between them was long buried in the past. Of course by then he'd been more than half-mad already.

He shook his head slightly, dispelling the reminiscences. He wasn't as nostalgic of the past as some of his former associates. The past was the past; the only way was forward. That was especially true in Natael's case.

Neya hadn't moved, he noticed. He wondered what she was looking at, what she was thinking about. Letting out another yawn, he heaved himself off the bed and walked into the other room to freshen up. After donning a new shirt, he joined her on the balcony. The light was making a halo around her soft brown hair. She was leaning casually over the railing, apparently lost in thought. It was hard to believe that such an innocent-looking girl could have outlived the most fearsome of all the Chosen and deceived Lanfear besides, and that under torture.

"Good afternoon," she said without turning, the grin obvious in her voice. "Did you have your beauty sleep?" she added teasingly.

He smiled at her back, moving closer, until he was standing right behind her. She turned around slowly, clearly wondering what he was up to. Before she could open her mouth, he kissed her as thoroughly as he knew how.

* * *

Neya was so stunned that, for a moment, she responded almost reflexively. Of course, that caused Jay to kiss her even more fiercely. He placed his hands around her waist, pressing her against the railing.

She had to stop this. Panting a little, she put her hands on his chest and disentangled herself from him, gently but firmly. "What's wrong?" he murmured roughly, sounding breathless. He reached up with his hand to brush back a strand of her hair. "Too fast?" he asked softly, one eyebrow arched teasingly.

She shook her head. "We can't do that," she whispered. He frowned at her. "I'm sorry," she said, moving away from him and into the room.

"And why not?" he called after her. "We've been pretending for over a month. It's about time we put all that practice to good use," he told her with a grin. He took a step toward her, but she raised a hand to forestall him.

"I mean it, Jay. I never make the same mistake twice," she said quietly.

"Mistake?" he asked, obviously confused. "What mistake?"

"I got close to Elan and look how _that_ turned out."

He let out a short bark of laughter. "I hope you're not comparing me with Ishamael, girl," he said with some of the scorn he'd often displayed around her, back in Rhuidean. "The man was mad. He got himself killed because he was in over his head and couldn't even see it. I know better than that. I have absolutely no intention of being killed. Mark my words: immortal or not, I plan on having a very long life," he told her forcefully.

"I doubt anyone ever _plans_ on dying or being killed," she pointed out.

"Neya," he said, raising his hands in a calming gesture, "I understand it must have been hard on you, but that's all behind you now. You're safe here. We both are. We are under the protection of the most powerful man in the world. What could possibly go wrong?"

"The most dangerous man, you mean. The most likely to get us all killed. Surely you can see that?" she said with a hint of desperation in her voice.

Cautiously, he closed the distance between them, enfolding her in his arms and stroking her hair. "I won't allow that," he whispered in her ear. Slowly, he lifted her chin to him, kissing her softly.

Soon, it was too late to stop anything.


	25. Realisation and horror arrive together

Later that day, long after night had fallen on Cairhien, Mat knocked on his sister's door. Hers and Natael's, he amended with a scowl. Burn Neya, what could she possibly see in the man? Mat had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that his little sister, who had been a girl when she disappeared over a year ago, was now a grown woman. With flaming terrible taste in men.

That wasn't the reason of his visit, of course. He'd had a pretty disturbing night, what with Melindhra attempting to stick a knife in him and all that. He still couldn't quite grasp the fact that he'd killed her, which was more or less the reason for his coming here in the middle of the bloody night. If Melindhra could turn out to be a Darkfriend, why not the gleeman, or anyone else for that matter?

Neya opened the door a crack and smiled when she saw him. Apparently, she hadn't been sleeping, although her hair was tousled. She gestured for him to come inside. Thankfully, Natael wasn't here. They settled in the two chairs on the balcony. "Is everything alright?" she asked him with a concerned frown. "You look a bit peaky."

Mat snorted. "Nothing out of the ordinary, really. The woman who's been sharing my blankets for the past few weeks tried to kill me, but I killed her first," he told her darkly.

"Melindhra?" Neya asked, shock painted on her face. Mat nodded. "Burn my eyes! What did you do to her?" Mat gave her an outraged look but, before he could protest, Neya raised her hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry. I didn't mean that. But I never did like her, you know," she went on with a faint grimace. "Why in the Pit of Doom did she attack you?"

Mat let out a deep sigh. "She was a Darkfriend," he muttered. "One of Sammael's. At least, I think she was. She had a knife with nine golden bees, so I assume she served him," he said. Suddenly he put his head in his hands. "I shared my bed with a bloody Darkfriend!"

Neya put a hand on his shoulder. "You couldn't have known," she told him in a comforting voice. "But why did she decide to attack you now? She certainly had better opportunities to stab you in the past," she said with a frown.

"She went rabid when I told her Rand was sending me to lead his army against Sammael. She was probably trying to buy some time so she could warn him. I'm not sure," he finished lamely.

Neya's eyes widened. "Rand is sending you to Illian? At the head of an army?" Her voice grew increasingly incredulous as she spoke.

"He seems to think I have a knack for it," Mat muttered sourly.

"Well, look who's there," Natael called from inside the room. He hadn't bothered to knock before letting himself in, Mat noticed. "Matrim bloody Cauthon himself. The hero who slayed Couladin in single combat and led his band of merry men to victory with barely a loss," he said dramatically. Mat shot him a baleful glare. Bloody gleeman. Natael grinned at him.

Neya sighed softly. "Behave, boys. Mat, do you want to stay here tonight?" she asked, concerned.

"Hey, I'm not a child!" he told her indignantly. Bloody woman. Neya gave him a bright smile, showing teeth. "Burn you," Mat grumbled, rising to his feet. "I just came here to warn you. Be careful. You never know who will be trying to stab you," he said with a pointed look in the gleeman's direction. They both chuckled softly. Burn them both! "I'll see you tomorrow," he threw the words over his shoulder as he exited the room.

* * *

"Do you think it was Sammael?" Neya asked Jasin some time later as they lay in bed.

"Hard to tell," he replied quietly. "It could have been Rahvin, trying to deflect attention from himself. Or any of the others, really. Who knows what they're up to?" he said, holding back a yawn.

"When Rand goes to face Rahvin tomorrow, I'm coming along," she announced matter-of-factly.

That brought him up short. "You can't come. You can't channel! What are you going to do when we're under attack?" he asked, staring at her in disbelief.

She gave him a sweet smile. "You do realise that, of the two of us, I'm the most likely to survive a sword fight, don't you?" she said teasingly. "Besides, I won't be the only person there who can't channel."

"Do you really believe that Rahvin or Sammael or any of them will give you the opportunity to demonstrate your sparring abilities before they crush you like an insect?" he asked sarcastically. "Well, Demandred might," he amended reluctantly, "but you won't live to tell about it."

"What was he like?" she questioned him suddenly. "Demandred. Did you know him? Before the War of Power, I mean."

He frowned slightly at the change of topic. "If you think I'm going to let it slide…" he began.

"I know you won't. I also know that I don't need your permission to go," she told him fiercely. He started to open his mouth. "Don't bother. It's the price you have to pay for putting me in this situation. If you're going to be in danger, I want to be there to make sure nothing happens to you," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. He muttered something under his breath. It sounded a lot like a curse in the Old Tongue, although she wasn't familiar with the phrase.

"Fine," he said eventually. "I didn't know him well, but I encountered him a few times, at social gatherings and such events."

"Really? Elan said he wasn't keen on that sort of things."

"He wasn't. He spent most of his time glaring at Lews Therin and drinking alone in a corner. At least when he wasn't being pursued by some woman," he said. "I only spoke to him once or twice, in passing. Before he turned to the Shadow, I mean. Not that he ever talked to me much after he became one of us," he added with a sneer. "Thought highly of himself, Demandred did. Everyone else was beneath his notice."

_The crow calls the raven black,_ Neya thought amusedly. He was always quick to point out flaws in others but rarely acknowledged his own. "Did?" she said out loud. "He's still alive, isn't he?" she asked with a frown.

"As far as I know. I haven't seen him or even heard of him since I… woke up," he said after a brief hesitation.

"What was it like, waking up in Shayol Ghul after all this time?" She had been wondering about this for a while, but had never dared to ask.

He didn't answer right away. "It felt like suddenly coming to your senses after passing out from too much drinking," he ventured eventually. "We didn't realise what was happening. The last memory I had, before pulling myself off the floor, was of Ishamael cursing and charging toward the exit, Aginor and Balthamel on his heels. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor and Rahvin is giving me a quizzical look. A few of the others were still… asleep, Demandred among them," he went on. "I picked myself up, asked Ared what had happened, but he simply shook his head in puzzlement. We couldn't wake the others, so we decided to go out. There was nothing outside. A few Trollocs, some Shades. No armies. The sky was different. The whole world looked different."

"Wait," Neya cut in. "You had no idea that you'd been asleep? Or unconscious, or whatever it was?" she asked in a surprised voice. He shook his head. "So, when you went out, you didn't know that three thousand years had just passed you by," she went on slowly.

He shook his head again. "No idea whatsoever. We looked around for a long time, trying to make sense of it. Then Ishamael appeared," he said glumly. "His eyes and mouth were on fire. He was clearly not all there, and the more he explained, the more I wondered if he'd gone mad, plain and simple. I couldn't believe it, you see. It's one thing to be promised immortality, and quite another to realise you've just spent three millennia… sleeping. We stared at him in shock, and he laughed like a loon at the look on our faces. When he recovered he told us to follow him. We stepped into a library of sorts, although it looked nothing like any library I'd ever seen. It was small and dingy and it smelled horrible. I still don't know where it was. He showed us a few books, most of them written in a language neither Ared nor I could make sense of. The Common Tongue," he clarified when she frowned. "Neither of us could understand it at the time, you see. Ishamael had taken the time to make summaries in the Old Tongue, but he told us we would need to learn this barbaric language of yours quickly." He grimaced a little at that, to show how much he'd appreciated the process. " _Lews Therin Telamon: the Kinslayer_. _A Brief Account of the Breaking_. _The Life and Death of Artur Hawkwing_. Others as well, I don't remember all the titles. Ishamael talked as we read his notes. How Lews Therin had sealed the Great Lord's prison. The taint, the madness. We were stunned into silence. He explained what he'd been up to until then, or part of it, and said that only Aginor, Balthamel, Be'lal, Sammael and Mierin had awakened so far. He told us to find our marks, do some research. He'd meet with us when we'd accommodated."

They were both silent for a moment. "I can't imagine what that must have been like," Neya whispered, snuggling closer to him. "To have your whole life turned upside down like that, so abruptly." She knew exactly what he had been up to before he was imprisoned in Shayol Ghul, and most of it was rather gruesome, but it was still quite a traumatic experience, Forsaken or not.

He turned to face her, smiling. A genuine smile, not his usual grin or leer. "You are such a strange woman," he told her affectionately.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she said wryly. "What makes me so strange?" she asked curiously.

"The way you always put aside the bad in people and focus on the rest, no matter how well hidden it might be," he replied softly, nuzzling her neck. "The way you care about everyone. Even me." That was all the answer she received. Things quickly escalated after that.


	26. Just another passerby in the path of a lightning bolt

They woke up at dawn and got ready quickly. Jay was adamant that it was a terrible idea for her to accompany them to Caemlyn. After a while she stopped arguing with him. There was no point. Her mind was set.

They joined Rand in his rooms, and Jay had an earnest talk with the younger man. Aviendha stood there, frowning at the gleeman. Jay finally gave Rand a low bow and retreated, dragging Neya along. "He agreed to let me prove myself, to help defeat Rahvin, but he says you can't come along. Too dangerous," he told her in a low voice.

"What makes either of you think I care what you say?" she wondered idly.

"Shall we ask Matrim what _he_ thinks of your coming with us?" he asked her with a scowl.

She laughed at that, which caused his frown to deepen. "Obviously, you don't know him very well. I told you not to bother trying to dissuade me. I'm coming, and that's that," she told him firmly. He opened his mouth again but she gave him a warning glance. "It would be a shame for you to get yourself killed before we even reached Caemlyn," she said in a dangerous voice. That shut him up – for the time being, at least.

They met Mat outside, near the stables. He scowled at her, clearly wondering what she was doing here, and reacted exactly as Jay must have hoped. But she knew how to handle Mat. Before Jay realised what was going on, she had persuaded her brother that she would be safer coming along with them, where Mat could keep an eye on her. Who knew what could happen to her here in Cairhien, where people were said to plot against each other in their sleep? Mat finally agreed, reluctantly, as she had known he would. She gave Jay a triumphant smile.

Apparently, they were going to stop by the docks before Traveling to Caemlyn. Moiraine said there was something for Rand to see. They made their way there swiftly and headed for the peddlers' wagons. Neya wasn't sure what happened afterward, exactly. She had remained a little way behind, talking with Mat.

Suddenly Lanfear was there, and Power-induced fire erupted all around them. Chaos ensued, but it was over before she knew it. Moiraine suddenly jumped out of nowhere, grappled briefly with Lanfear, and they both fell through the twisted _ter'angreal_ that had led Neya to the realm of the Finn not so long ago.

Egwene had been seriously harmed, although her life didn't seem to be in imminent danger. _If I can't embrace the Source even when Egwene is hurt, I never will_ , Neya thought miserably. Rand seemed to be in shock, and Lan was suddenly packing his horse and getting ready to leave, it appeared. Jay and Mat were both alright, however, and that was what mattered the most to her at the moment.

She saw Rand argue with one of the Maidens – Neya thought her name was Sulin – and the Dragon Reborn seemed to reach a decision. Apparently, they were still going to Caemlyn.

* * *

She followed Jay onto the platform that Rand had created to take them to the Royal Palace in Caemlyn. Rand gave her a weary look, but said nothing. They were followed by Aiel, as many as could fit on the platform. When it was full, the gateway slowly vanished. Mat swore and muttered something about the Ways, which earned him a startled look from Jay. The gleeman held tightly to her as they… moved.

At least she assumed they were moving. There was no sense of motion at all in the void that surrounded them. They remained there for half an hour or so, to the best of her estimation, and everyone stood very still. Finally, they must have reached their destination, because another gateway opened, revealing a slope that ended in a high wall. Everyone went out.

She could see Jay nervously fingering the hilt of the sword he had brought with him. The man had told her he was pretty much useless with it, and she believed him. He'd had trouble even sheathing it properly this morning. She was glad she'd come along. Strangely, Lanfear's shield hadn't vanished when the woman died. Jay was almost as defenceless as a new-born babe.

There was no one around, not a soul beside the Aiel fanning across the empty street and scaling the wall ahead. Suddenly the wall blew apart, sending some of the Aiel flying and revealing Trollocs charging through the openings. In their midst, she spotted dark-clad shapes slithering on the ground. Myrdraal, she was sure they must be. Their eyeless gaze sought her out, sending shivers of fear through her spine. Jay placed himself in front of her, sword out. _Fool man_ , she thought fondly. She stepped to the side, smoothly slashing her own sword – she'd acquired a proper blade once they'd settled in Cairhien – across a beaked Trolloc's chest.

She fought for a long time and paid little attention to the bolts of lightning that crashed around her, until she stumbled over a charred corpse. It had a blackened harpcase strapped to its back. She looked around frantically, certain that Jay had to be somewhere else. She saw her brother sprawled on the ground just a few paces away from her, smoke rising from his spear and coat. His eyes were already glazed. Aviendha was dead too, but Neya barely noticed. Suddenly _saidar_ filled her, sweetness and joy and sheer power almost overwhelming her.

* * *

Rahvin had been destroyed, although Neya hardly heard Rand when he announced it. Jay and Mat were talking quietly and looking at her with concern. She couldn't help staring at them in astonishment. One moment they had been dead – very much dead, no matter what she did with _saidar_ – and the next they were on their feet as if nothing had happened. Neya had been shocked out of her wits, laughing and crying hysterically, hugging them both at the same time despite their protestations.

They had both been frowning at her ever since. She knew what must have happened. Jay had explained to her the effects of balefire and the consequences it could have. But it was one thing to hear about it and quite another to witness it first-hand, especially in such circumstances. They had both asked her what was wrong, several times, but she couldn't bring herself to tell them.

* * *

They moved to the Royal Gardens a while later and Jay put his arm around her waist as they made their way there, Mat and Aviendha trailing after them. Neya still had trouble accepting that they were alive and she was afraid that if she let either of them out of her sight, they would be gone again. Her brother settled down near the fountain with the Aiel woman and they chatted for a time while Jay led her to one of the benches, in the shade of a red myrtle tree.

"Neya, talk to me," he urged her for the umpteenth time. "What happened? Are you hurt?" She shook her head slightly without answering. He stared at her a moment longer, as if trying to read her mind for clues, but gave up after a few minutes. He unstrapped his harp instead and played something soft and comforting, a tune she'd never heard before. She laid her head on his shoulder, allowing the music to fill her mind, anything to replace the vision of Jay and Mat lying dead on the paved street, not so far from here.

She couldn't be with Jasin. She couldn't be _near_ him. She'd known from the start that attaching herself to him was a terrible mistake, and she'd been right. She had to leave, and soon.

Neya abruptly realised he'd stopped playing and was now encircling her in his arms and stroking her hair. She was crying again, she noticed absent-mindedly.

Jay straightened up after a while and announced cheerfully that she needed a drink. "Wine makes everything better," he whispered conspiratorially, rising from the bench. He offered her his hands, heaving her up on her feet. "We should find something decent in there," he went on, indicating a door that seemed to lead to one of the wine cellars. He pulled the door open and held it for her. "Ladies first," he told her with a grin, bowing slightly.


	27. How swiftly you dismiss our love

There was a woman inside, Neya noticed with some surprise.

She was tall and voluptuous, with red-gold hair flowing in curls around her head, and she was a channeler, a powerful one. Jay gasped in horror.

Neya didn't hesitate. Embracing the Source, she weaved something to shield both of them from whatever Graendal – she was quite certain it was her – had in store for them and was rewarded by the stunned look that passed across the Forsaken's face. Without a moment's hesitation, the older woman vanished.

There was a long silence. "You channeled," Jay remarked weakly.

She turned to face him. "I did," she said, wonder in her voice. "Does that mean the block is gone?"

"Probably," he replied. "That was Graendal," he added conversationally.

"I know. We should warn Rand," she said briskly, all trace of her stupor following the recent events suddenly evaporated.

When they found him, the Dragon Reborn was talking with a rather short, slender man with greying hair. The door was open, so they stood just outside the room while Rand explained to the man – whom he referred to as Lord Bashere – that he intended to proclaim an amnesty for all men who could channel, Mazrim Taim included. Neya had no idea who Mazrim Taim was, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment.

Eventually, Lord Bashere gave Rand a small bow and departed, eying them curiously on his way out. Rand gestured for them to approach.

"Rand, Graendal just tried to kill him," Neya announced without preamble, indicating Jay.

Dropping his goblet, Rand jumped to his feet, looking around the room as if he expected the Forsaken to appear right then and there. "Where? What happened?" he asked crisply.

"In one of the wine cellars, down in the gardens. She fled when she realised I'm more powerful than she is," Neya explained.

They both stared at her in astonishment. "You are?" Rand asked incredulously.

Neya pursed her lips. "I think so. I haven't really learned how to estimate these things. Anyway, I wove some kind of ward – don't ask me exactly what I did, I have no idea – and she… disappeared."

"So you… channeled? But Moiraine says–" He cut off abruptly, blinking, then seemed to regain his composure. "She said you had a block and couldn't channel unless someone was wounded, possibly someone specific. Although she didn't say who, from what I know, I assumed it was Ishamael."

Neya nodded. "True. But now that I think about it, I already channeled earlier, when–" She stopped mid-sentence when she realised what she'd been about to reveal. Shaking her head slightly, she went on more carefully. "While you were fighting Rahvin. I don't remember much about it, but suddenly I was holding _saidar_ and trying to Heal… people," she told Rand with a pointed look, avoiding Jay's curious gaze.

"Can you embrace _saidar_ now?" Rand asked. She could, she realised with delight, and she did. For the third time that day, the Power filled her. It truly was an intoxicating feeling. No wonder people burned themselves out by channeling too much. Rand nodded slowly. "Good. I can use that," she heard him mutter. Neya couldn't have made out the words if she hadn't been holding _saidar_.

"I'd be happy to assist in any way I can," she said quietly, causing him to flinch. "What was it that you were discussing with Lord Bashere? An amnesty? What do you intend to do exactly?"

Rand considered her for a moment. "I mean to gather all men who can channel and give them proper training, so they can fight for me in the Last Battle," he answered gravely.

"You want to turn them into weapons," she said flatly. Rand simply nodded. Light, but her old friend had become cold. "How can I help?" Jay was frowning at her.

"How could you? They're men. Even if you can channel at will, you can't teach them anything," Rand told her.

"Even if I _could_ teach them to become weapons, I wouldn't," she replied coolly. "But if you're going to gather them all in one place, you will need someone to organise them, handle the logistics, that sort of things," she went on.

They were both frowning at her now. "Of course," Rand said suddenly, slapping his forehead. "I almost forgot." He let out a long breath. "You want to help them. I understand that, Neya, but is it really a good idea? I assumed you would want to go home, once this business with Rahvin was done. Especially now that Lanfear is gone," he murmured. Moiraine's abrupt loss apparently burdened him more than she thought it would. They hadn't seemed particularly close.

Jay cleared his throat loudly, as if to remind them both that he was still there. "Maybe we could both help, my Lord Dragon. I could teach the men, even with the shield, and Neya can help with the rest," he supplied hopefully.

Rand was shaking his head before he was done talking. "No, you will stay with me," he said firmly. The older man opened his mouth to argue, but Rand forestalled him. "I trust you, Natael, to an extent, but I'm not willing to let you out of my sight, not quite yet. Besides, I can make use of your insights." He turned to Neya. "You're right, however. I will need someone I can trust to take care of the male channelers when I'm not around, and I won't be, most of the time. Light knows I don't have time to spare," he whispered almost inaudibly.

"Do you mean for her to do that on her own? To be surrounded by men who can channel, men who will eventually go insane? With all due respect, my Lord Dragon, this _is_ insane!" Jay blurted out.

"I can take care of myself, Joar," Neya told him coolly. She realised, too late, that she'd used his real name. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps she was trying to distance herself from him.

He rounded on her. "Can we at least discuss this? When did you even decide that you wanted to leave?" he asked her sharply.

"Very well," she said, turning to Rand. "I will come back later, when we've sorted this out." Rand nodded, already dismissing them from his mind.

They walked back to the gardens in silence, Jay glowering at everyone who passed them by. Mat and Aviendha were gone when they arrived, so Neya went to the fountain and sat on its edge. Jay followed her, stomping on the wilted grass angrily. "What in the Pit of Doom was _that_ all about?" he hissed at her.

"I need to get away from you," she replied softly. "I told you it was a bad idea. I shouldn't have let you talk me into this," she said with a gesture encompassing the both of them.

He looked at her indignantly. "I didn't exactly force you into anything, you know! And why is it a bad idea? Because of Graendal? Is that what you're afraid of? That they'll all come for you now? You don't think I can keep you safe?"

He looked as though he wanted to keep asking pointless questions, so she interrupted him. "Who kept whom safe, back in the cellar?" Neya inquired. He opened his mouth but closed it again a second later. He hadn't done anything even remotely helpful in there, and he knew it. "I'm not blaming you, Jay, I'm just making a point. And it's not me I'm worried about. You should know better than that by now."

"But you're not making any sense! Look, you're right. I was useless against Graendal. I _am_ useless," he snarled at her. "If you hadn't been there, I would have died. But that's exactly my point! If you leave, who will look out for me? Al'Thor?" he snorted. "He doesn't care whether I live or die. I've taught him what he needed to know. I'm too weak to teach him anything else, and he knows that. He keeps me around because no matter what he says, he still doesn't trust me. He never will."

Why did he have to make things even more difficult? Did he think she _wanted_ to leave him? "So you want me to stay to be your bodyguard?" she asked sarcastically.

"Of course not! I just don't understand why you want to go. If you're afraid something might happen to me, wouldn't it make more sense for you to make sure nothing happens, by staying close to me? Or do you just want to be far away when something _does_ happen?" he went on in a snarky tone.

"I can't go through this again," she whispered. "First Elan, then you…" She trailed off as yet another image of his charred body flashed in her mind. She gave herself a shake. "I can't lose you again. Do you have any idea what it was like for me, earlier? Or haven't you figured out what happened yet?" she told him, suddenly angry.

That took him aback. There was a long silence before he spoke again. "I… died, didn't I?" he asked uncertainly. "The balefire he used on Ared brought me back," he went on, without hesitation this time. He had probably known this before she asked, but hadn't dared admit it to himself.

"You and Mat both. The lightning must have struck you just after the Trollocs emerged. I stood weeping over your corpses for over half an hour, Jay," she murmured in a tight voice. "Do you have any idea how that felt?" she asked again, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I can't say that I do," he muttered, reaching for her. She pulled away from him. "Neya, it won't happen again," he told her.

"How can you say that with a straight face? You follow the Dragon Reborn and you're considered a traitor by the Forsaken, by the Dark One itself! How can you possibly tell me nothing like this will ever happen again?" she asked him incredulously.

"You're right, I can't," he admitted reluctantly, "but I do know we'd all be a lot safer if you stuck around," he told her with an edge of desperation in his voice.

She was shaking her head before he finished. "I can't," she muttered. "I just can't, I'm sorry," she said again, standing up. "I care about you, more than you might think, and certainly more than I should. But I can't be with you." Without another word, she walked past him and made her way back to the palace. He called after her, but she didn't look back.


	28. Thus far, a rather uninspiring thing

Two days later, Rand took Neya to a small farm and told her he would send all those who applied for the amnesty her way. The place had been deserted during Rahvin's reign in Andor. It was in relatively good condition and some of the animals had been left behind. Neya was utterly alone at first, so she took care of everything on her own. In the course of the following week, she cleaned the place from top to bottom, making way for cots and pallets to be brought up at need. She thought the main building could hold at least twenty people, if need be. The barn could accommodate at least twice that number.

Truth be told, she wasn't sure what to expect. How many male channelers could there be left in the world? The Red Ajah usually made certain they didn't live long enough to become a danger. Of course, the Aes Sedai didn't actually kill them. The men were stilled, cut off from _saidin_ for the rest of their natural lives. Most men didn't survive the loss, however.

Besides, if anyone did come, she had to admit she was a bit apprehensive as to the kind of men that might show up. She expected criminals and runaways of all sorts might find this amnesty particularly interesting.

On the eighth day, someone arrived.

A cart appeared around noon, and a single man got out, looking around dubiously. He was of medium build and corpulence, almost bald and quite old. He seemed to be limping. Neya went out to greet him. "Morning," she told him brightly as the cart made its way back to the city. "You're here about the amnesty, aren't you?" The man gave her a small nod, eyeing her uncertainly. "Don't worry, you've got the right place. I'm Neya," she went on, thrusting her hand forward.

He gave it a firm shake. "Damer Flinn," he introduced himself.

"Well, let's get you inside. I'll make us some tea," she announced cheerfully. She grabbed one of the man's bags and made her way toward the house without waiting to see if he followed.

She dropped the bag near the entrance and told him to do the same with the rest of his belongings. A few minutes later, they were both settled at the table with a steaming cup of tea. "I suppose you were expecting something a bit more… formal." Flinn gave her a contrite smile. "Truth is, you're the first person to show up. Rand – the Dragon Reborn – wasn't sure how many people would answer his proclamation, and I'm not entirely certain he's thought it all through. There is no one to teach or even test people for the spark yet. If you're intent on staying, you will have to wait until someone comes along, and there's no telling how long that might take." Better to be straightforward from the start. The man might have somewhere else to be, a family to care for, so there was no point in wasting his time here.

Flinn appeared to consider this while sipping his tea. "No one's waiting for me," he finally told her. "Might as well stay," he added with a shrug.

She grinned at him. "I'm glad to hear it. Where do you come from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm Andoran. Served in the Queen's Guard for thirty years," he said simply. "Took an arrow in the knee a few years back and had to retire," he went on with another shrug, "but I got bored. When I heard 'bout the amnesty, I figured I might as well give it a try. I'd like to learn Healing, most of all."

"Speaking of Healing, has anyone ever taken a look at your knee? I couldn't help but notice that you still limp a little," she said timidly.

He shook his head. "It was years ago. Can't do nothing about it now," he said matter-of-factly.

"Do you mind if I try anyway?" she prompted him.

He looked at her in surprise. "You're an Aes Sedai?"

"No!" she said, louder than she intended. "No, not an Aes Sedai," she went on in a softer tone. "Just a channeler. A wilder, if you will. I'm good at Healing," she explained.

He chewed on that for a moment. "Well, why not? You never know."

She got up to stand beside him. "I need to hold your head. It helps." Many Aiel had been injured during the battle against Rahvin's armies of Shadowspawn. Since her block had vanished, she had taken the opportunity to test the extent of her Healing abilities in the little time before she was transferred here at the farm. Flinn gave her a brief nod and she placed her hands on his temples. _Saidar_ filled her. She barely even thought about it anymore. Her block was already a far-distant memory. She heard him gasp softly. A moment later, she stepped back, letting her hands drop to her sides. She peered at him, eyes narrowed. "Well? How do you feel? Did it work?" she asked him impatiently.

"Only one way to find out," he said, standing up. He stretched his leg, bent it and took a few hesitant steps. He looked at her in wonder. "I can't believe it," he murmured. "It's gone! It's like it was never even there," he marvelled. Suddenly he launched into a little jig, laughing in delight.

Neya chuckled. "Are you sure you want to stay here?"

He stopped dancing, growing serious once more. "Now more than ever," he replied earnestly.

"Well then. Won't be able to escape chores now," she told him with a small grin. "Also, I assume you can use that sword," she went on, pointing at the blade that poked out of one of his bags. He nodded, obviously wondering where she was going with this. "I could use a sparring partner," she said.

His eyes widened. "You're full of surprises," he said with a note of admiration.

Neya shrugged lightly. "How about I make us some dinner? You will be hungry, after the Healing. You can get settled while I cook and we'll see about getting some practice later," she put in. He nodded. She showed him to the rooms upstairs and set to fix them some stew. _Finally_ , she thought, _someone to help with the chores_. She had become used to the servants in Cairhien, she had to admit, to her shame. It had been weeks since Neya had had to wash up dishes or do her own laudry, let alone look after farm animals. Any help would be most welcome.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, more men joined them, some accompanied by their families. There were now a dozen children and as many women, wives and sweethearts who had agreed to follow their men even here. Damer was the oldest, Eben Hopwil the youngest. The skinny boy was only sixteen, even younger than Neya herself. Fedwin Morr was about her own age. The others ranged from twenty to forty-five. Most of them were Andoran.

Memec Kesunyian, a sturdy man in his early thirties and the only Domani applicant so far, arrived soon after Damer, with his two daughters. Their mother had died four years ago. The eldest, Karys, a skinny, dark-haired girl of eight, explained it all to Neya soon after they arrived because, as it turned out, her father was mute. She was incredibly mature for her age, because she'd had to take care of her little sister so their father could work. Ilawen was a spirited, chatty five-year-old with an incredible mass of curly brown hair and sparkly green eyes. They had taken to Neya right away, and she to them.

The other women – the wives, as everybody called them, including themselves, whether they were married or not – had taken up the more domestic chores without any real consultation. Sora Grady looked after the children with two of the younger women; Dany Malone and Meira Huldin were now in charge of the kitchens and Dottie Malk overlooked the laundry, with the help of the remaining women and some of the older children.

Neya was left to give a few orders, mostly for form, and make sure no one starved. She'd made arrangements, with Damer's help, to receive daily supplies from Caemlyn. At Neya's suggestion, they had both begun to give sword lessons to the men, mostly to keep them occupied. Of course, the men received their fair share of chores, from mucking the stables to feeding the animals and cutting firewood. The few applicants who possessed some skill with masonry or carpentry had started to work on repairing the barn and house.

Neya made it clear to everyone that she had no idea when they would be tested and begin their training. Rand had made no appearance since the day he had brought her here and she had received no message from him. So far, only five applicants had left the farm, although she strongly suspected that their wives had been the main reason for their departure.

Then one afternoon, the mighty Lord Dragon himself suddenly popped out of the woods surrounding the farmyard, followed – or rather preceded – by his usual retinue of Maidens and talking to a man Neya didn't recognise. With a twinge of disappointment, she noticed that Jay was not there.

The newcomer was handsome and tall, if not quite of a height with Rand, with dark hair and a hooked nose. He had a commanding way about him, as if he was used to being obeyed without question. The laugh lines at the corners of his mouth were deep, although he didn't appear particularly cheerful. His clothes were suitable for a well-to-do merchant, if a little worn, although the man himself looked nothing like a merchant. He had a dangerous air about him. He seemed to be in his late twenties.

Rand saw Neya and made his way toward her, still discussing with the older man, and she moved to meet them halfway. The other man gave her a brief glance when she approached but appeared to dismiss her a moment later, never interrupting his conversation with Rand. Her old friend gave her a warm smile, and only then did the newcomer take a good look at her. His dark eyes seemed to pierce through her soul, making her feel almost naked. She focused on Rand. "Good of you to make an appearance, my Lord Dragon," she said with a mock curtsy.

His smile spread into a grin. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I got caught up in a few other matters. You know, what with _Tarmon Gai'don_ approaching and all that," he replied wryly. Neya snorted. Still grinning, Rand tilted his head slightly toward the other man. "Neya, this is Mazrim Taim. Taim, this is Neya al'Kane," he introduced them quietly.

So this was the infamous Mazrim Taim. After she'd agreed to oversee operations out there at the farm, Neya had questioned Rand about the man Lord Bashere seemed so intent on finding – and arresting. A False Dragon, a man who had sowed chaos and destruction throughout his native Saldaea. Why in the Pit of Doom had Rand brought him here? Surely he didn't mean to put _him_ in charge of the men?

Taim remained silent, frowning at her as if wondering why they were being introduced. She returned his stare levelly before turning her attention back to Rand. "I suppose you came here for a good reason? Other than interrupting everything?" she asked coolly, one eyebrow arched. Rand let out a small chuckle.

Something suddenly crashed into Taim, making him stumble in surprise. Neya bit back laughter as Ilawen clutched the Saldaean's leg and demanded to be carried. "Ila," Neya told her in a strangled voice, "leave the man alone." The little girl turned to her, frowning slightly, before letting go and attaching herself to Neya instead. Neya picked her up deftly. "Go tell Damer that the Lord Dragon is here. Tell him to gather everyone in the yard," she told her before setting her back on the ground. The girl bolted, shouting for Damer. Neya grinned after her.

When she turned back, Taim had such a look on his face that she was half-afraid the man might have suffered a stroke. Rand was chuckling softly. "She seems fierce," he put in lightly. Neya nodded, still smiling. Taim seemed to recover from his ordeal; his face became impassive once more, although his dark eyes flashed with unsuppressed annoyance. "Let's do this," Rand said more seriously, looking determined.

They walked into the yard proper, where Damer was assembling all the men. Most of them stared at Rand and Taim in awe and not a little apprehension. Clearly, none of them knew which one of the newcomers was the Dragon Reborn. Damer stood nearby, bellowing orders, outwardly calm, but Neya noticed that he was fingering his sword hilt nervously. Sora Grady had come out of the kitchen and was eyeing the strangers with a disapproving twist of her mouth. She had an arm firmly wrapped around her son Gadren's chest.

Rand briefly introduced himself and Taim – the assembled crowd let out a collective gasp when he announced the older man's name – then went straight to the point and told everyone to give their name to the Saldaean before he started the testing. Taim, however, appeared to run out of patience in the middle of it and beckoned Damer to approach.

It took a long time, longer than Neya would have thought. Taim summoned a small flame, seemingly out of nowhere, and everyone stared at it for at least ten minutes. No one spoke, not even the children. Ilawen ran back to Neya as soon as the flame appeared. Karys joined them a moment later, obviously worried. The other wives had abandoned their tasks to observe the scene and were standing in a cluster around Sora.

Eventually, Taim nodded. Apparently, against the man's expectations, Damer could be taught to channel _saidin_. Rand made excuses soon after that, pretexting urgent matters, and was followed by Taim an instant later. They seemed to argue for a moment, until the Saldaean finally stepped back reluctantly, allowing Rand to depart.

The tall man stalked back to the farmyard with a dark look on his face. Whatever had been said did not please him. He walked up to Neya, stopping so close that he seemed to loom over her. His eyes glittered dangerously. "Who are you?" he demanded sharply.

"Neya," she replied flatly. "I believe Rand made the introductions earlier," she went on dryly.

"I'm not asking for your name, woman. Why are you here? Why did he put _you_ in charge of this place? It doesn't make any sense," he hissed at her. Abruptly his face became emotionless once more. He took a deep breath before pursuing. "It makes no sense," he repeated in a lower voice, shaking his head. "He wants us both to run this place. Together. As _equals_ ," he finished scornfully.

"Well, that makes perfect sense to me," she told him brightly. He looked like someone she would enjoy annoying. He regarded her incredulously and opened his mouth to argue, but she went on heedlessly. "You should obviously be in charge of the men and everything that pertains to their training and channeling in general," she went on, "and I should be in charge of the rest." She met his dark eyes levelly. "You can't manage everything on your own, you know. I can help. I'm not as useless as you seem to think, although why you should think that when we've just met is a mystery to me."

He stared at her unblinkingly as she began, but his eyes took on a calculating cast as she went on. "Very well," he muttered eventually.

"It's not like you have a choice," she supplied crookedly.


	29. Let's get down to business

The testing took the rest of that day and most of the next. At the end of Mazrim's second day at the farm, only five men had been told that they either had the spark or could be taught to channel. The rest was sent packing. Mazrim wouldn't tolerate unnecessary distractions. As if the women and children weren't bad enough, he told Neya disdainfully, though only Sora remained among the wives, while her son and Memec's girls were now the last children at the farm. She was glad they were, the girls especially, and she felt awful for feeling that way. No one should have to watch their father go mad or slowly rot, depending on which happened first.

Of the initial twenty-seven applicants, only Damer, Fedwin, Eben, Jur and Memec had been allowed to stay.

Mazrim was efficient, she had to admit, if not particularly likable. He was obviously used to ordering people around and expecting them to obey, which everyone did without hesitation, including grizzled Damer. Expectedly, the first thing the Saldaean taught the men was to seize _saidin_. Some of them picked up the trick fast enough, notably Damer and Eben, who both succeeded on the first day after their testing. Once the men could accomplish that, they learned basic weaves that allowed them to start fires or sweep dust with Air. When those simple weaves were acquired, the men could use them at will to carry out their everyday chores. Mazrim said the only way to get them to progress quickly was to force them to channel as often as possible.

Damer was now very busy with his lessons, of course, so Neya took up the sword practice all on her own. Mazrim seemed to find it useless, but she pointed out to him that Rand had insisted on it.

More men arrived every day, sometimes as many as four or five at a time, although most of them were sent away as soon as Mazrim declared they couldn't channel or be taught to. By the time Rand came back a week later, there were seven students. The two latest additions to their ranks were Atal Mishraile, a brazen golden-haired man with striking blue eyes, and Jonan Adley, a youth from Altara. Neya hadn't been around when Rand appeared, but Mazrim told her he'd finally agreed for him to Travel to recruit more applicants. The Saldaean now spent most days recruiting, leaving Damer in charge of the other men.

With this new method of recruiting, the number of students grew higher and higher every day. In addition, the cart now brought as many as ten or fifteen men daily. Three weeks after Mazrim's arrival at the farm, they had gathered sixty-seven channelers. They had to set up tents to accommodate everyone and the barn was repaired entirely and extended – with the Power, of course.

Neya found herself thriving at the farm. She felt better than she had in months, maybe better than ever. This was what she was meant to do, helping people, looking out for them. She felt useful and valuable. And there were the children. Ilawen had attached herself to Neya as if she'd always known her. Karys, although she was more timid and liked to pretend that she didn't depend on anyone, often remained close to her as well.

Neya and Mazrim got along well enough, all things considered. The man was arrogant and appeared self-centred, but for all his sharp manners and dark cynicism he seemed to genuinely care about the safety and well-being of his students, as well as that of their families. After all, she supposed, he was himself a male channeler, doomed to go insane or die a slow, painful death, just like the rest of them.

They met every evening to review the events of the day. It had been Neya's suggestion that they proceed thus and, despite an irritable mutter that he had other things to see to, Mazrim had agreed to it when she pointed out that otherwise, she would be bothering him with matters as they presented themselves, interrupting him constantly.

The meetings were all about logistics on her part and about the men's progress on Mazrim's, although he kept his own report to a strict minimum. Three men had burned themselves out and one casualty had had to be deplored so far. A young man named Siman Proctor had drawn too deeply on _saidin_ and literally burned himself to a crisp. It had been a gruesome scene and there had been nothing to do besides shielding the few people who happened to be nearby, something that Mazrim saw to with his usual brisk efficiency. Siman's remains had been buried behind the barn with little ceremony; he had come alone to the farm and no one knew if he had any living kin.

Unfortunately, most of the children – there were eighteen of them now – had seen what happened and it had taken all of the wives to get them to calm down again. Karys seemed a bit perturbed, but the little girl rarely displayed her emotions plainly. Her sister had cried for a few minutes in Neya's arms before getting distracted by a butterfly and running to chase it. She didn't let trifles such as this get in the way of her happiness, Ilawen didn't.

* * *

Neya was starting to enjoy their little evening reports. Mazrim – she had taken to call him that from the start and, although he clearly didn't like it, he had never asked her not to – quickly realised that she was, in fact, not as useless as he had assumed. She was in charge of supplies, she welcomed and settled the newcomers, organised the chores schedule and took care of every other little detail that did not involve Mazrim or the men directly. She still gave sword lessons as well, almost every day. She had kept the ledgers at first but fortunately, one of the men who had failed the test, a plump Taraboner by the name of Gaio Ragioniere, had offered to supervise them, something to which she had gratefully agreed, with Mazrim's assent of course.

She was doing a pretty good job, if she did say so herself. Everyone seemed to like her and they came to her with their requests and problems without hesitation. Mazrim himself had told her that he was satisfied with the way she handled everything, and the man wasn't exactly forthcoming with compliments.

At the moment, the Saldaean wasn't giving many lessons himself, instead leaving that part to the most advanced students and concentrating on recruiting with one or two other men. One of the latest initiates to join their ranks, a pretty young man from Arafel named Jahar Narishma, would likely surpass everyone at the farm, excepting Mazrim himself, once he reached his full potential. Others had been found that were quite strong, although so far, Damer was still the most powerful of them all. The old man progressed rapidly and seemed to have a special affinity with Healing, which was good, since it was what he had come to learn in the first place. He was now in charge of the testing of the daily arrivals and also taught basic Healing to the most recent students. The former soldier had taken to the farm – the school, as Mazrim called it – like a fish to water.

"What is it?" she asked Mazrim suddenly. He seemed even more distant than usual and she could tell he wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. He looked at her, frowning slightly. He must have thought his face was expressionless and found it odd that she'd noticed something was bothering him. Well, after weeks of studying the man, she had learned how to spot the signs, however subtle. She also knew he had gone to Caemlyn earlier that day. "Did something happen with… the Lord Dragon?" She really had to stop calling him Rand all the bloody time.

"Nothing that concerns you," he replied crisply. Idly turning his empty goblet in his hands, he went on in a milder tone. "When I first arrived here, I asked you why al'Thor had put you in charge. You never answered. Was it some sort of punishment? What did you do?"

"He needed someone he could trust to oversee the whole venture. It wasn't a punishment. I asked to be sent here."

His eyes widened slightly. "Why in the Pit of Doom would you do that?" She gave him a small shrug in answer and he snorted. "You're here because you feel sorry for them, aren't you? For _us_. You pity us. Or you'd probably call it compassion, not pity," he said, his dark eyes flashing with contempt. "Such a typically female sentiment," he went on with a sneer.

She met his eyes steadily. "My father had the spark," she told him quietly, "although I didn't know it at the time. When we were little, my brother and I, he used to do these little magic tricks, as he called them, and he would say that it was our secret, that we shouldn't tell anyone about them, not even our mother. He would summon colourful flames or make objects move at a distance," she went on in a low voice. "Then one morning, I went out to carry out my morning chores when I heard a scream from the house. It lasted only a few seconds, but by the time I came back from the sheep pen, all that was left of the house were charred remains. It had burned down in flames so hot that everything inside had been obliterated in an instant. Everything and everyone," she added softly.

Mazrim stared at her for a long time, his face stony. "I'm sorry," he muttered eventually, looking away.

"While we're on the topic," she went on, "would it be alright for me to study some of the men? For signs of madness, I mean."

He frowned at her, obviously confused. "What do you mean, study them?"

"I'm good with Healing. I just thought that if I could–"

"You can channel?" he asked sharply, his eyes glittering dangerously.

That brought her up short. She sat there gaping for a second before gathering her wits. "Of course I can channel. Didn't Rand tell you? Well, obviously he didn't," she answered her own question hastily as his scowl deepened. "Mazrim, I'm sorry," she told him earnestly, "I really thought you knew. It never occurred to me that you didn't. I didn't hide the fact on purpose or anything." Light, what had Rand been thinking? This was a man who had been captured by the Red Ajah and almost gentled. The least he could have done would have been to warn him. It had seemed so self-evident to her.

"So you're an Aes Sedai," he said bitterly. Then he cursed, something she had never heard him do before. She made a mental note of the curses he used; some were very colourful indeed. Those Saldaeans certainly knew what they were about.

When he was done she shook her head slightly. "I'm not an Aes Sedai. I have absolutely no association with them. I'm a self-taught wilder. Not unlike you, in fact," she told him in a placating tone. "Rand and I are from the same village," she went on. She might as well disclose that fact as well. Who knew what else the bloody man had left out?

Mazrim studied her for a long time, considering. His hand gripped the goblet so hard that his knuckles were white with the pressure. She was surprised that he hadn't crushed it yet. Or thrown it in her face. "Is there anything else you might have… omitted… to tell me?" he asked her dryly.

"I don't think so. But to be fair, I don't _owe_ you anything. I don't know anything about you either, so I don't see why you should know everything about me," she replied in the same tone.

"Yet we agreed that I would be in charge of the men and all that pertains to channeling. We didn't specify what kind of channeling," he told her quietly.

Neya snorted. "If you think you can order me about like the rest of them, you're in for a surprise," she warned him.

"Maybe not," he admitted flatly. "However, it is in my power to reject your proposition, as it concerns my men," he told her with a slight twitch of his mouth.

"Fine," she said irritably, standing up. "Let them all go mad, then. But don't expect me to raise a hand to help when they do," she told him fiercely. She stalked out of the room without looking back, conscious that this was an empty threat. And after what she'd just told him about her father, she suspected that Mazrim was perfectly aware of that, too.


	30. Beware the storm that gathers here

Rand made another appearance a few days later.

There were now one hundred and four students at the school, about half as many women and thirty-six children. Saeric, the Red Water Goshien Rand had sent their way a few days earlier, was teaching the men some hand-to-hand combat forms, despite his grey hair and missing right hand. Neya and the Aiel alternated their lessons between the different groups of students, of which there were four at present, with the men divided according to the rapidity with which they progressed as well as their potential strength in the Power. The latest development, a whim on Mazrim's part, had been to provide each of the channelers with a black coat to mark them as students of what they were now ironically calling the Black Tower. Often as not, Mazrim now left the recruiting to the most seasoned students, Damer and Jur among them. As a result, the Saldaean spent more time giving lessons to the most promising pupils.

Despite Mazrim's refusal that Neya examined the men for early signs of madness and a potential Healing method to counter it, she had opened up to Damer about it. The former soldier had been enthusiastic about the idea and started to slip the word to some of the men he knew would keep their mouths shut around the others. Among them were Arlen Nalaam, a copper-skinned Domani just short of his thirtieth year, and a man going simply by Naeff, a tall, lean Andoran in his early forties. Damer himself agreed to be Delved first. They didn't have much time to experiment, however, and they had to be careful. But even so, during their third session, Neya managed to identify the projection of the madness inside the men's brains. It looked like a dark, intricate spider's web. Naeff's seemed to have spread the most, while Damer's only consisted of a small dark patch. Arlen's appeared to be somewhat in between and concentrated in one specific part of the brain.

It seemed that age or strength in the Power didn't have anything to do with the presence of the taint's contamination or its severity. On top of that, Neya had been studying all the books she could find on the brain, its different 'parts' and their functions. She noted that the webs affected different parts of the brain, which resulted in varying manifestations of the madness. Arlen, for example, sometimes switched his speech to a different language, one nobody recognised. It might not have been an actual language at all. He was never aware of these lapses and claimed that he heard the words in the Common Tongue. When Neya succeeded in localising the projection of madness in his brain, it was lodged in his temporal lobe, the part of the brain associated with speech and auditory stimuli.

Despite her discoveries, she hadn't yet dared try to alter the webs in any way, let alone remove them. She was afraid she would make a mistake, something that she couldn't afford since she was operating directly on the brain.

Rand arrived early in the morning, but everyone was already hard at work. He was greeted by Peral Torval, a middle-aged Taraboner who apparently said something he shouldn't have, because Mazrim knocked him out cold with what had to be a weave of _saidin_. After a few words shared with Mazrim, Rand made his way to the block the Saldaean used to make announcements. Everyone gathered to hear him, women and children included. As usual, Ilawen and Karys huddled around Neya.

The Dragon Reborn addressed the assembled crowd like someone unaccustomed to making speeches. He began by warning them that the White Tower had split, just like the rumours claimed. He informed the students that he had decided to call them _asha'man_ , a word borrowed from the Old Tongue that translated literally as either 'guardian' or 'defender'. Furthermore, he had established ranks that more or less amounted to those used by the Aes Sedai. Every new recruit would now begin as a Soldier and be raised to the second rank, Dedicated, if they possessed the required level of skill. The Dedicated would be awarded a silver pin shaped as a sword, to be worn on the left side of their collars. The highest rank achievable, Asha'man, would be granted to the most advanced students and would earn them another pin representing a red and gold dragon that would be placed on the right side of their collars. Neya had to bite back laughter when she saw Mazrim's face as he was grandly awarded both pins. The man seemed ready to murder Rand where he stood.

There were no cheers as Rand concluded with some inspiring words on the battles to come. Mazrim sent everyone back to their lessons and chores as soon as Rand descended from the small platform and gestured for the older man to join him in the main house for a chat. Neya would have given much to hear _that_ conversation, but she knew better than to intrude, especially with the Saldaean in such a foul mood.

She went to check on Peral instead. He lay pale-faced on his cot in one of the tents. She asked him if he wanted her to Heal him and he informed her with a condescending sneer that Mazrim had forbidden Healing to be performed on him. The men held Mazrim in high respect and were painfully aware of the cost of disobeying him, so Neya didn't insist and left him to nurse his headache. She found some of Mazrim's methods of discipline questionable, to say the least, but he seemed to know what he was doing. The men never went too far from fear of punishment and brawls were always broken before anyone could get seriously injured, when they were not averted altogether.

That evening, during their daily meeting, she asked Mazrim if Rand had given any noteworthy news, besides what he had already disclosed in his speech. "Not much of interest," he told her with a small shrug. "He's not worried about the Aes Sedai, which I find troubling, although there's nothing I can do about it." He seemed to consider whether to share the next piece of information. "I think he's going mad already," he said eventually, his voice almost too soft to hear.

Neya swallowed. "That's… not surprising, but certainly alarming," she murmured. "Unfortunately, there is little anyone can do to prevent it from happening," she went on casually, idly fingering the edge of her goblet.

Mazrim settled his dark eyes on her. "Do you seriously think I don't know what you're doing behind my back, your little experiments with Flinn and the others?" he asked her coolly.

"Always, you underestimate me. I make no such mistake regarding you," she told him with a crooked smile. "Of course you would know. I expect nothing less from you. I also know that you would have put an end to it if you truly disapproved," she went on matter-of-factly. "Though how you expected me to think Atal had joined us on his own initiative remains a complete mystery to me," she added with a wry chuckle.

"Have you learned anything that Mishraile might not have told me about?" Mazrim asked her offhandedly.

"We've learned a lot, but I'm afraid no breakthrough has been made so far," she replied carefully. "I don't dare pry further into their brains unless I'm absolutely certain of the proper method to apply. Damage to the brain is hard to recover from," she said with a faint grimace. "I've been trying to explain to Damer how to Delve the others properly, but it's tricky, what with us being unable to see each other's weaves."

Mazrim studied her for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Well, you might as well keep at it. Who knows? Perhaps you will actually stumble upon the answer. Besides," he went on, "I've watched you stitch back together an arm on a man's shoulder. If you can't figure it out, nobody can," he said simply. Neya felt her cheeks heat up slightly at the compliment.

Silence fell for a moment. "Rand said nothing else? About what he's doing, what he's going to do?" she asked eventually.

"As I said, he told me nothing of import," he said, somewhat irritably. "You know, he's more likely to share these things with you than with me. Why didn't he speak with you?"

"Maybe because he trusts me completely and doesn't feel the need to check on me every time he shows up?" Which was a rare enough occurrence, truth be told. When she'd embarked on this venture, Neya had assumed the Lord Dragon would supervise them - from afar, perhaps, but that he would involve himself somewhat, at the very least. When he'd put Mazrim and herself in charge, she'd never imagined he actually meant it. Well, he surely had other matters to attend to. Rand would take the lead at some point, wouldn't he?

Mazrim snorted and remained silent for a time. "Have you had dinner yet?" he asked her abruptly.

"No, not yet. I was busy having a secret gathering," she said wryly.

"I'll have Grady bring us something," he said, already walking to the door. Neya stared after him. Had _he_ gone mad?

Sora came soon afterward, bearing two plates of roast mutton and mashed potatoes with gravy. Jur's wife kept her eyes on the floor and never said a word. She scurried out right after placing the plates in front of them.

They talked about Neya's experiments a little longer before moving on to Mazrim's previous encounters with men who could channel. He had found five such men in the years before he declared himself the Dragon Reborn. Four of them had gotten cold feet after he tested them, but the last one, Yerekhan Brazir, wanted to be taught. Mazrim had taken him under his wing and, together, they'd travelled along the Borderlands for two years, fighting Trollocs and other Shadowspawn creatures and devising new weaves to destroy them. Brazir was quite strong, if not quite as powerful as Mazrim himself, but during the last few weeks of his life, it became apparent that the taint had affected the other man. He would sometimes burst into inexplicable fits of laughter or get angry without reason. Then one day, out of the blue, he'd gotten up in the middle of the night and had tried to stick a knife in Mazrim's heart. Fortunately, Mazrim was a light sleeper and woke up as the man was bending over him. He seized him with the Power and tied him with weaves of Air. Brazir, in a blind rage, had demanded to be released, then had suddenly burst into tears, which were quickly followed by a hysterical cackle. Mazrim had done the only thing he could think of: he had killed the other man.

"How did you do it?" Neya asked him quietly.

"Slipped some poison into his wine. Asping rot," he answered flatly.

She was familiar with that herb; Egwene had taught her some of the things that Nynaeve had passed on to her as Wisdom. "Is that what you intend to do to them here, when they go mad? Provided I can't find a way to Heal them, of course," she added almost to herself.

His dark eyes flashed in sudden anger. "Yes, it is exactly what I intend to do. What else would you have me do?" he asked, his voice tight with fury.

She raised her hands in a placating gesture. "There's no need to get so defensive, I was just wondering. It was not a reproach. The Light knows, a quick, painless death would be a mercy," she whispered.

He seemed to regain his composure, his anger fading as quickly as it had flared. "A mercy," he murmured in agreement.

Not for the first time, Neya wondered if the man was aware of his own shifting moods.

* * *

The next day, Mazrim announced that they would build a wall around the Black Tower. The Saldaean seemed nervous about the increasing number of Aes Sedai assembling in Caemlyn and Neya could hardly blame him, considering his history with the White Tower. He reluctantly distributed the pins Rand had provided the previous day after making his announcement. Expectedly, Damer was the first to be awarded the silver sword pin along with a few others, including Atal and Peral. At this rate, Rand would have to provide more badges soon. Neya judged that most of the newly raised Dedicated would make it to the next level in a matter of weeks, if not days.

Their numbers kept growing, until they had to start building barracks to accommodate everyone; the tents were already crammed, as well as the house and barn. The farmyard quickly grew into a small hamlet. Mazrim even had some of the men build him his own house. 'A leader cannot mingle among his subordinates,' he told Neya pompously. 'He must set himself apart from his charges.' Neya gave him a shrug and remained in her own room in the original building. It was incredible how fast the men were learning; it had taken them only three days to build Mazrim's house. He had them working on extensions already. The man certainly did think highly of himself. At this rate, he would be living in a palace by the end of the year.

Neya kept her experiments going for a week longer, although most of the volunteers had been raised to Dedicated and were therefore increasingly occupied, but soon there was not much more to learn. The next step would be to actually develop a method to remove the black webs of madness, or try to, but she still couldn't bring herself to do it. With Damer's disappointed assent and later, Mazrim's falsely detached shrug, Neya put an end to it herself. Maybe she would get back to it when an opportunity presented itself; when, for example, one of the students had a sudden outburst of madness that required immediate attention and on which she would have no choice but to act, provided that it wasn't too late by then.

They welcomed over two hundred new Soldiers in the next month, as summer lingered impossibly into what should have been early winter. As expected, many of the earlier recruits were soon raised to Dedicated, Jahar among them. The men all seemed slightly awed by the youth's incredible strength, even though he still was no match for Mazrim. Of course, Jahar wasn't the only gifted student, far from it. Manel Rochaid and Charl Gedwyn were not far behind, and even Atal was said to have become as strong as Damer. Those three, among others, were soon given the dragon pin, although for some reason, Mazrim told her that Damer wasn't ready for it yet.

There were now fifteen Asha'man and four times as many Dedicated. Rand's army of doomed men was growing larger by the day.


	31. Resistance is futile

They started meeting in the study of Mazrim's new house after it was properly arranged. They had begun to take their meals together in the evening, at the same time as they reviewed the day's activities. Neya had been sure he would make advances to her at some point; it seemed inevitable to her that he would, although she couldn't have said why, exactly. It was just that, after their first dinner together, she had felt a connection between them that hadn't been there before.

But every night, he stood up to walk her to the door, which he gallantly held open for her, and bid her good night in a perfunctory manner. She wondered if she should say or do something; men were known to be oblivious to such things. But not Mazrim. Nothing seemed to escape the man's notice. Maybe he simply didn't return the feeling. She had been wrong about these things before. In any case, she told herself firmly, she would not make the first move. That would be improper.

At Neya's suggestion, Mazrim had reluctantly agreed to give everyone some time off during First Day. No lessons would be given that day and chores would be kept to what was strictly necessary. There would even be a small feast at noon. Usually, at this time of year, they would have had to huddle inside the buildings but, given the mysteriously warm weather, they settled for a picnic.

They never got around to it, however.

Everything was set: tablecloths had been spread all over the clearing, food was spilling from baskets and there were large quantities of wine and ale. Some men had even dug out musical instruments and were playing an assortment of lutes and pipes and even a tambourine or two. Everyone was laughing and joking, and the children were playing around in the field delightedly. It would have been an amazing day.

Instead, Mazrim came back in a hurry from Cairhien before anyone could settle down and he assembled all the Asha'man, Dedicated and Soldiers he thought were ready for battle, about two hundreds of them. He told Neya to keep watch on the rest of them, but she retorted that, wherever they were going, she was going with them. He opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it.

Moments later, they left for a place called Dumai's Wells.

* * *

They marched into chaos. There were Aiel attacking Aiel, some of them wearing strips of red cloth around their arms; men wearing different kinds of armour; channelers, both Wise Ones and Aes Sedai; and, incredibly, wolves. In the confusion, it was hard to tell friend from foe but, thankfully, Mazrim seemed to know exactly which was which.

Neya would not kill unless she had to, that much she vowed. Whatever her abilities with the sword, she was a Healer at heart. But she would make sure her men were safe. She kept close to them, raising shields of Air around them to avoid the cracking lightning bolts and sizzling fireballs that flew overhead. Damer and Atal formed a protective guard to either side of her, all the while throwing invisible weaves of _saidin_ at various targets. It wasn't pretty. Following Rand's orders, Mazrim had turned his students into deadly weapons. Aiel seemed to literally explode around them, sending bits and parts flying everywhere. The ground was slick with blood and mud.

Neya followed Mazrim through the clusters of fighters, with Damer and Atal still at her side, until they reached a circle of wagons. They found Rand there, a slender woman clinging to his arm. Charl had reached the camp before them and seemed to be considering whether to attack the Dragon Reborn. What was the Asha'man doing? An instant later, Mazrim stepped beside him and began to inform Rand of the situation. Neya saw Rand recoil from the Saldaean at one point. Soon afterward, Damer explained to her that a protective dome made of _saidin_ had been placed above the campsite.

Neya remained close to the men but turned her attention to the other people around them. The inside of the dome appeared to be secure, with Dedicated and a few Soldiers gathered around women who had to be Aes Sedai, given their ageless faces. Were they fighting against Aes Sedai now? This battle made less and less sense to her. Mazrim hadn't bothered to explain what was going on before dragging them here.

As for the other side of the dome, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening. Aiel who didn't wear the red band were pushing against the invisible barrier, obviously trying to get to Rand. They must be the enemy, then; Shaido, most likely. Bolts of lightning still flashed in the clear sky.

When Neya looked back to where Mazrim stood, she glimpsed a broad-shouldered young man with curly brown hair speaking urgently to Rand. _Wait a minute_ , she thought, frowning. _Isn't that–_

"Perrin?" she finished her own thought in an incredulous whisper. The large man turned his head in her direction, although he couldn't possibly have heard her over the commotion. She saw his eyes widen in astonishment, his mouth dropping open. It _was_ Perrin. She was quite certain of that, although the Perrin she remembered didn't have bright yellow eyes. He took a few wavering steps toward her and hugged her so tightly that she heard her ribs creak ominously.

"It might be a good idea to keep the effusions for a more appropriate time," she heard Mazrim mutter to her left.

Perrin released her slowly and gave her a good look, concern etched on his face. "Are you alright?"

She nodded hastily, grinning up at him. "Yes, fine. You look a lot worse than I feel, actually," she told him. He barked a short, mirthless laugh before Rand brought everyone's attention back to the matter at hand.

Apparently, Perrin wanted to dissipate the dome to rescue the Two Rivers men who were caught on the other side, still engaged against the Shaido. Two Rivers men? Fighting Aiel? This was becoming more bizarre by the minute. After a moment, Rand agreed that they would remove the dome, but he wanted the Asha'man to disperse the Shaido. To break them.

Mazrim was always a bit rigid, but he now stood so stiffly that Neya wondered if Rand was using weaves of _saidin_ to hold him in place. After a brief hesitation, he began ordering the men about. The dome was raised, and the bloody massacre that ensued made even her swallow a little bile. She was used to wounds of all sorts, but this was something else entirely.

The Shaido turned to run as their fellows were transformed into minced meat, but the Asha'man launched devastating weaves of Earth and Fire after them. Finally, Rand yelled for Mazrim to put an end to the carnage. The Saldaean's face was stony; his dark eyes looked almost dead. The girl who clung to Rand was weeping inconsolably and most of the Aes Sedai, who had been uneasy enough when the Asha'man simply stood there, now looked about ready to faint or sicken up. In fact, several of them already had.

Most of the Asha'man managed to remain impassive, although Eben's face was ashen and Fedwin was wobbling on his feet. Charl was smiling smugly at the departing Shaido. Damer and Perrin were both staring at Neya, obviously concerned. Abruptly, she realized that she was weeping. She hadn't even noticed. _So much for poise_ , she thought dejectedly.

After the cacophony of the battle, the sudden silence was almost eerie. Rand broke it to congratulate – congratulate! – the Asha'man and Mazrim for their… performance, which generated quite a lot of cheers from the men. When Rand turned around, nine Aes Sedai had made their way toward him.

Before Neya could puzzle out what was going on, the Aes Sedai were kneeling in front of the Dragon Reborn and pledging themselves to him.

* * *

Neya spent the next few hours Healing everyone she could, with Damer at her side. By nightfall, she was so exhausted she could barely move. Damer had retired two hours ago; considering the amount of energy he'd used during the battle, it was a wonder he'd lasted so long. Mazrim had to literally drag Neya to one of the tents the Asha'man had set up on one side of the camp. There were just so many wounded and it tore her heart apart to leave them bleeding, or worse. Of course, she had first asked if any Asha'man required her attention after the battle was done, but she was told that none of them needed Healing. She had assumed it meant that none of them had been hurt.

As they made their way toward their part of the camp, Mazrim walking stiffly at her side, half-supporting her, she noticed nine bodies lying on one side, all covered with a black cloth. Before Mazrim could catch her, she was stumbling toward them. Most of them were Soldiers, new recruits she hadn't known for a very long time. The last one was Memec. She knelt beside him for a moment. Although he'd been one of the first to arrive, they hadn't been very close, but she couldn't begin to imagine what she would say to Ilawen and Karys.

Light, what a bloody mess.

Mazrim crouched beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. He whispered something her exhausted mind didn't register. She got up on her feet once more, clutching his arm to steady herself. The look of concern on his face was so unusual that she almost didn't recognise it for what it was. She attempted a smile to let him know she was alright, but she only managed a faint twitch of her mouth, not unlike his own crooked almost-smile. He led her away from the bodies, to the far end of the camp, until they reached the largest tent. He even asked her if she needed help to get into bed, which would have made her giggle wildly in other circumstances. Instead she just shook her head and he left her there to attend to other matters. Idly, she wondered if this was his own tent or if he'd had one set up for her. Neya half-fell on the cot and drifted off to sleep before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

She woke up in the middle of the night. A flickering flame gave off a faint light, just enough for her to see Mazrim sitting behind a makeshift desk and studying some papers. Why was the man still awake, after everything they'd been through? Or maybe that was exactly why he couldn't sleep. The Light knew, if not for her body's exhausted demands that she lay down, she would have likely fought sleep to avoid the nightmares she was sure would trouble her. Luckily, her rest had been unperturbed by dreams of any sort. Her mind had been too tired to even come up with something to entertain her while she slept.

Neya got up and approached Mazrim as quietly as she could, but he spoke before she'd gone three steps. "You should rest some more. It's only been three hours," he told her without turning.

"If I needed more sleep, I wouldn't have woken up," she replied matter-of-factly. He snorted. "Why aren't _you_ sleeping?"

"My cot was taken," he answered dryly.

"Well, it's vacant now," she told him. "You should get some rest, too." Mazrim shrugged, not bothering to reply, his eyes never leaving the documents in front of him. Without thinking, Neya laid her hands on his shoulders and started to massage them. _So much for not making the first move_ , she thought wryly. In light of recent events, she realised she didn't care if it was proper or not. They could all be dead tomorrow, or in an hour. What point was there in being proper?

She felt him tense, but it lasted only half a second. Oddly, he didn't say anything. She had expected a sarcastic comment, at the very least. Maybe he was stunned by her presumptuousness. After a moment, however, he seemed to relax, and even reclined backward slightly. Neither of them spoke as she went on, trying to unknot the taunt muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. It was no small feat.

Some time later, she became aware that he was shaking slightly under her hands. Again, she acted without considering what she was doing. She let her arms slide down his chest and hugged him comfortingly, her face resting in the crook of his neck. Again, he remained silent. The quiver receded after a while, but Neya didn't move, and neither did Mazrim, not for a long time.

Eventually Mazrim raised his arms to remove hers, gently lifting them away from his chest. He stood up and moved around the chair to place himself in front of her, just like the day she'd met him. He loomed above her, face intent, his dark eyes boring into hers. And then he kissed her.

It was an unexpectedly soft and hesitant kiss, almost as if he'd never kissed anyone before, or had forgotten how. He drew back much earlier than she would have liked, leaving her breathless and a little frustrated. His face had taken on a dark cast.

"I'm sorry. Momentary lapse. I shouldn't have done that," he whispered gravely, not meeting her eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" she said uncertainly. He had to be joking. She'd been waiting for this for weeks! Admittedly, the time and place were not the most adequate, but still…

"I shouldn't have done that," he repeated softly. "This is wrong. I'll let you rest," he went on with an air of determination.

He started to move around her, but she placed a hand firmly on his chest. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked in a dangerously soft voice.

"Neya, we can't do this. You of all people should know that. I thought we had a sort of silent agreement," he said with what sounded suspiciously like desperation.

"Well, that's the thing with silent agreements. You never know what you've agreed to, or even if the other person is aware of it," she told him dryly. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?" she asked him roughly. "Give me one good reason," she added before he could argue. "And if you tell me you're going to die, think twice."

"Isn't that a good enough reason?" he asked with a sneer, bitterness twisting his features. "How about 'I will go insane and destroy everyone around me'?" he went on sarcastically.

"Everyone dies eventually. Sooner rather than later, these days. And I _will_ find a way to remove the taint's corruption. I will do it if it's the last thing I do," she said fiercely.

Mazrim let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "And I suppose you will chase down the remaining Forsaken and defeat the Dark One while you're at it?"

She slapped him. He blinked at her in surprise, reflexively raising a hand to his cheek. "Don't be like that. I know it's your go-to coping mechanism, but spare me. Not after today," she said angrily. Then she kissed him again, pulling at the lapels of his coat to make him bend toward her. He tried to push her away, but she would not budge.


	32. An offer you can't refuse

Mazrim awoke at dawn, as he always did. On those few nights when he actually slept, anyway. Neya was there, her back to him. He'd fallen asleep with an arm around her, holding her close to him. She smelled of blood and mud and perspiration. She hadn't bothered to wash up last night, or maybe she simply hadn't had the strength. She had been exhausted after Healing everyone she could lay her hands on, so tired he'd had to half-carry her to his tent. Fool woman. She could have burned herself out, channeling so much.

He couldn't believe what had happened. After years of carefully avoiding women, and any sort of emotional or physical attachment, for that matter, it had taken only a kiss and a word from her to get him into bed. _Fool man_ , he thought bitterly. _You're pathetic_. What was he going to do now? Neya wouldn't settle for this; she would want more. Mazrim had nothing more to give her.

Light, what was he supposed to _do_? With everything that was going on now, it couldn't have come at a worst time. He had made sure not to get too close to the other men, not to attach himself to them. He had to remain distant, for their sake if not his own. Who knew what Moridin or Demandred would make of this? They had both made threats to come after his friends and family if he didn't obey their every word. That had been almost comforting, since he had neither. And if there was no one for them to coerce him with, that meant he had leverage, no matter how tenuous. Of course, they could still decide to Turn him to the Shadow against his will. That had been the real threat, although neither Forsaken appeared to be particularly fond of the process.

It had been clear for a few weeks now that Neya thought of him in a different way than she had before. Mazrim had felt it too, he couldn't deny it. He'd simply assumed that she would put these thoughts aside for the sake of – if nothing else – common sense. He had really thought she would. Considering what happened to her father, she should have been more aware than anyone of the dangers of being around men who could channel.

Not that Mazrim himself was mad, or would ever be. The Dark One's protection insured that he couldn't be touched by the taint. But that was exactly the problem: he was a Darkfriend, no matter how much he hated it. He had sworn an oath, an oath he could never take back. After Ishamael had forced it out of him, he had hoped the Forsaken would simply forget about him and leave him be. Hope had deserted him a long time ago, however. It was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He had discovered his ability to channel soon after his twenty-first birthday. It had come as a shock, of course, but Borderlanders were practical people, and he was more practical than most. Kissing his mother goodbye, he made his way to World's End, a day's ride away from home, and stood on the edge of the sheer cliff overlooking the ocean. He had stood there for hours, but in the end, he couldn't do it. He was weak, too weak. A fine Borderlander he was.

Weak men were known to drown their sorrows in drink and bury them in the flesh of loose women; after all, if Mazrim was going to lose his sanity and, eventually, his life, he might as well enjoy himself while he could. For months he went from one tavern to the next, each one dingier than the last, stopping at every brothel on the way. He drank from sunrise to sunset and lay with every person who would have him, and they were numerous.

Until that one night, near the border between Arafel and Kandor, when the woman he had set his sights on for the evening told him that she'd run out of heartleaf tea. She added with a coy smile that she didn't mind if he didn't, already shedding her clothes as she said it. That brought him up short. He hadn't thought about the possibility before, about what all of this… frantic fornicating… might entail. And what it entailed was this: how many children may he have already unknowingly begotten, how many children that would grow up without a father? All of a sudden, he realised how thoroughly he had messed up. It wasn't just about him. Men who could channel were a danger to their families, their friends, everyone around them. That had marked the end of his senseless spree.

He had departed the next morning at dawn and travelled all the way back to World's End, stopping by his home on the way. His mother had died two months ago, the new occupant explained in a chagrined voice. They had tried to locate Mazrim, searching several villages around, but couldn't find him anywhere. Something had had to be done about the body, eventually. In the end, they had cremated it, as was customary in Saldaea.

Later that day, as Mazrim had reached World's End, he had come closer to jumping off the edge of the cliff than he ever had. He was truly alone in the world, and this was the right thing to do. He knew that, but he still couldn't bring himself to take that one, final step into oblivion.

Cursing himself for a coward, he had turned north this time, to the Blight. If he couldn't take his own life, maybe a benevolent Myrdraal would take it for him. Instead, his survival instinct had kicked in and he'd found himself repelling waves of Shadowspawn, weaving countless threads of Fire and Earth to destroy the beasts. Out there in the Blight, alone, Mazrim had taught himself to channel, and to survive.

A few weeks later, Ishamael had approached him.

Mazrim had been keeping to himself since coming here, hiding from the few people who occasionally showed up in this Light-forsaken place. A fitting place to encounter the man who had made the world tremble with fear three thousand years ago. He was quite tall, taller than Mazrim, and the only thing you remembered about his face was that his eyes and mouth were pits of raging fire. He came in the dark of night, while Mazrim was experimenting with a new weave to extend the reach of the ward he'd set around his small camp. The man walked straight through the ward without setting it off and approached Mazrim from behind. There was no telling how long he'd been standing there before he finally spoke.

"You will need a much more powerful ward to keep the truly dangerous individuals out," he said, causing Mazrim to jerk around so violently he almost twisted his neck. He was standing in the shadows, his eyes emitting a light comparable to that of Mazrim's cook fire. At first, he thought he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming, but the man suddenly moved closer to the fire and crouched in front of it. Before Mazrim could say anything, the apparition continued to speak. "I am Ishamael," he introduced himself as blandly as if discussing the weather. "Mazrim Taim, you are now under my supervision," he went on matter-of-factly.

It had taken Mazrim a moment to collect his thoughts. "The Dark One and all of the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul," he finally managed to whisper. What else could he say? This couldn't be happening. Had the madness taken him already?

Ishamael had laughed then, a mad cackle that made him look like he was about to breathe fire out of his mouth, like the dragons of legend. "Not now, not ever," he said conversationally. "Not me." His laughter abated abruptly as he fixed Mazrim with his fiery eyes. "You are strong. You have potential. The Great Lord of the Dark can give you power and privilege beyond your imaginings, if you but agree to serve him," he said. "I strongly suggest that you do. Failure to do so would be most… unpleasant."

"How unpleasant, exactly?" Mazrim blurted out without thinking. "Because I'm fairly certain I'd rather die than serve you. Or the Dark One," he added forcefully, with more bravado than he felt.

The taller man laughed again, but this time it came out as a dry, mirthless snigger. "If you refuse to bend, you will be bent. There are… methods… to achieve such results. I am not keen on applying them unnecessarily, however. It would be better for you to come willingly," he said with a sour twist of his mouth. "Turning unwilling individuals to the Shadow is a painful process, crude and time-consuming. If you force my hand, you will find I can make it even more agonising than is strictly necessary," he continued dispassionately. "The simpler method consists in threatening the lives of the people you care about, but it appears you've exhausted your supplies." Mazrim looked up sharply at that. The man chuckled once more, waving a hand dismissively. "I had nothing to do with your mother's untimely demise. Indeed, it would have been in my best interest to have her at my disposal, alive and hale. But no such luck," he said with a dramatic sigh.

"How long have you been following me?" Mazrim asked in a tight voice.

"Long enough," the Forsaken replied sweetly, "to know that you will come to your senses and spare yourself needless torment." So the man had also witnessed Mazrim's failed attempts to end his own life. He knew him for a coward. Much as it would satisfy Mazrim to prove him wrong, he already knew what his answer would be. Better to serve, no matter how unwillingly, than to have the ability to choose for himself removed altogether. He nodded eventually, causing Ishamael to grin like a maniac.

Mazrim swore an oath and, for his betrayal of every principle he had ever held to, he was rewarded with the Dark One's protection. He would not go mad after all.


	33. To love is to be vulnerable

Mazrim met several people in the years that followed, people who had come seeking glory – or, often as not, death – in the Blight. Some of them fled when they realised he could channel, expectedly, but those were surprisingly few. The others simply gathered around him and, together, they formed a small band.

It disconcerted him at first that these people would follow him anywhere, let alone put him in charge of their little group, but he quickly discovered that he had a natural capacity for leadership. The men regarded him with respect, despite his ability to channel.

After some time, he finally learned to identify the ability to channel in other men. Most of them, upon learning that they were indeed able to wield _saidin_ , or learn to, had simply deserted the band. He didn't blame them. Let them succeed where he had failed. Then Brazir agreed to be taught, and that changed everything.

Yerekhan Brazir was a gangly youth of eighteen when he first joined their little clique. The younger son of a wealthy noble, with seven older brothers, it was clear that there would be no place of honour for him in the family. So he set out to find his own path, to make a new name for himself in the Blight. To hear him talk, you would have thought he was Artur Hawkwing reborn. When Mazrim announced that he had the spark, expecting the boy to run back to his father, the boy had instead looked fervently excited and demanded that Mazrim mentor him.

Over the next two years, as their band grew in numbers, he taught the boy everything he'd figured out so far and, when that knowledge ran out, they began experimenting with new weaves. Brazir was strong, but even when he reached his maximal strength, he was no match for Mazrim. It was then that Mazrim truly realised exactly how powerful he himself was. Shortly afterward, the boy had gone insane.

There were warning signs, of course. Brazir had been subject to mood swings for months and Mazrim had become increasingly certain that the man wouldn't last much longer. No matter how prepared he was, it had still come as a shock, to witness the ultimate transformation. He woke up to find Brazir crouching over him, a dagger in his hand and a gleeful smile on his youthful, pimply face. Mazrim hadn't hesitated. The boy was securely bound before anyone was even aware of the incident. It had taken Brazir a few hours to calm down, though Mazrim suspected he'd only stopped his constant ranting and mad laughter because fatigue had taken over. A few leaves of asping rot had done the trick; a quick, peaceful death. A mercy. The boy he'd known had already been long gone in any case.

Brazir was the first person Mazrim had ever killed. He still remembered it as clearly as if it was yesterday, with painful accuracy. The ones who came later all left a stain on his soul, but it was Brazir who haunted his dreams, even years later.

It was also in those days that news of Logain, the False Dragon from Ghealdan, reached them. Mazrim had never considered it and probably wouldn't have if no one had mentioned it, but the men were adamant: this Logain fellow couldn't possibly be the Dragon Reborn. If the Creator had any sense, he would appoint a Borderlander as his champion for the Last Battle, not some soft southlander. Besides, Mazrim was powerful; they had witnessed the devastation his channeling could bring, sometimes destroying scores of Trollocs by himself. If anyone was the Dragon Reborn, it had to be him.

And, eventually, Mazrim had seen the sense in their words. The fact that he hadn't been born on Dragonmount was really just a detail, something the history books would easily work around. All in all, it didn't take very long to convince him. Maybe he had known all along and hadn't dared admit it to himself, but that time was over. He would accept his fate. No more weakness, no more cowardice. He was the Dragon Reborn, and he had a battle to fight.

He set out to gather an army, which turned out to be much easier than he had anticipated. Soon, Mazrim had scores of men at his back, each one ready to follow him into the Pit of Doom, should he require it of them. They marched across Saldaea, and when people refused to acknowledge him for who he truly was, his loyal followers brought them down on their knees and made them bow to him. The Queen sent troops against them, but they were invincible. They had the Light itself on their side. It was simple, really: all Mazrim had to do was accomplish one, only one, of the Prophecies. He would seize the Stone of Tear and the world would know who he was, and tremble at the sight of him.

But of course the witches had to take part, didn't they? Soon the Red Ajah was on their tracks, hounding them down. Battles were fought, every last one of which he won, easily. Until that cursed apparition took over the sky in Irinjavar and he was thrown off his horse. The Creator had indeed chosen a champion, but it wasn't Mazrim after all. He surrendered placidly, urging his followers to do the same. There was no need for more people to die for no reason. Many of his soldiers fled or hid; the witches had captured their prize and wouldn't bother with the rest of them.

And then one night, as he was trying his best not to contemplate what would happen once they reached Tar Valon, someone materialised in Mazrim's tent. The man simply stepped out from an opening in the air. A tall man, fair-skinned and powerful-looking, with a hooked nose and dark hair. Mazrim supposed he would be considered rather handsome.

For a long moment, as Mazrim gaped at him quite stupidly, the other man had studied him with intense dark eyes. "Mazrim Taim," he said in a deep, soft voice, "do you remember your oath?" Of course he did. He had not, however, given it much thought since Ishamael had appeared to him, all these years ago. How easy it was to forget such things when no one was there to remind you of them. Mazrim nodded reluctantly. "You are to be released from the care of those so-called Aes Sedai and assigned a mission," the man went on matter-of-factly. "You will be given further instructions after your escape. Do not expect me to help you fight your way out of this place, however. I will remove the guards, but the rest is up to you."

"That's all well and good but–" Mazrim cut off when he realised the man was already gone. An instant later, he felt the shield that held him off from _saidin_ being removed, like a string snapping. Without a thought, he seized the Source. He was so relieved he let out a small, near-hysterical guffaw before coming to his senses. He had to leave. It didn't matter that he had no intention of obeying the man; he had to escape while he could.

It had been surprisingly easy. To think that, if he hadn't been thrown off his horse, he would have made mincemeat of them all, those witches who thought they could cage him. He stole a horse, rode as far as he could, until the horse could go no further, then he ran some more on his own two legs. He hid for a long time, knowing that, by now, all of Saldaea – and, likely, every other Borderlander nation – was probably on the lookout for him, not to mention the Red Ajah, and possibly the whole White Tower.

Another man found him weeks later, appearing seemingly out of thin air. Mazrim was hiding in a tiny hamlet in Murandy, posing as a refugee from the very uprising he had initiated in Saldaea. This man was as tall as Ishamael, but much younger-looking. He was handsome, or would have been, if not for a pronounced cleft in his chin.

Mazrim scrambled to his feet and then did his best to look cool and collected and very much in control of the situation. "What–" he started to say before the man could speak, but suddenly he couldn't talk. He raised a hand to his throat and realised the man must have used a weave of Air to prevent him from talking. But why couldn't he see the weave? A second later, he realised with horror that he was cut off from the Source.

"You will not talk, Taim, you will listen. I want you to find the Dragon Reborn and gain his trust. You will follow him and report to me. _Only_ me," he emphasised imperiously, his piercing blue eyes intent. "Not to Demandred, or Graendal, or any of them. You are to give him this when you find him," he went on flatly, handing Mazrim a small object. It was black and white, in the shape of the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai of old. It seemed to be made of _cuendillar_ , except that the material would never be so brittle. "One of the seven seals to the Great Lord's prison," the man added matter-of-factly.

Mazrim stared at him incredulously for a long time. He shook his head and tried to speak, but the weave was still in place. How was he supposed to find the Dragon Reborn, let alone approach him? And what was he supposed to do when he did? He had many questions, but the man, whoever he was, refused to let him speak. "You will do as I say, Taim, and you will do it soon. Further instructions will be given once you have made contact. Remember your oath. Do not fail." On that last threat, the man vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared, leaving Mazrim alone with the seal – _a_ _seal_ , he thought almost hysterically, _to the Dark One's blasted prison_ _!_

As it turned out, locating Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, had been simple enough. The man didn't exactly go unnoticed. But how was Mazrim supposed to approach him without raising suspicion? The answer came soon afterward, when he heard about the amnesty. Al'Thor couldn't have made it easier for him. Mazrim didn't even need to convince the boy – he had been shocked to see how young the supposed saviour of the world was. Instead, al'Thor had offered him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.

The only problem was the girl.

_Neya_ , he scolded himself. _If you're going to betray her and break her heart, at least have the decency to use her name,_ he thought bitterly. He felt her move against him, but she didn't wake up. She was the only one he couldn't quite manage to push away. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how he treated her, she always came back determinedly.

Moridin – as he learned later the seemingly youthful Forsaken was called – came back several times after Mazrim's arrival at the Black Tower. He appeared satisfied with his work so far. His only order was to start recruiting likely candidates for the position of Dreadlord. 'The Last Battle is coming soon,' Moridin had warned him. 'Be ready.'

Demandred, the Forsaken who had done for the witches who held Mazrim's shield during his brief captivity, had also come to take his reports, apparently unaware of Moridin's visits or orders. Despite Moridin's earlier command, Mazrim had given Demandred the same account of his activities at the Black Tower. What was he supposed to do, deny one of the Forsaken? Surely Moridin would understand if he ever found out – not that Mazrim had any intention of letting that happen.

He came close to being exposed on one occasion, when Neya came barging into his study without knocking in the middle of the night. That had been about three weeks ago, when Ronon Dent, a newly raised Dedicated, had gone mad and tried to set fire to the barn, as well as multiple other random targets. Demandred had barely had time to turn himself invisible to her. Mazrim had left the man where he was; he couldn't ignore the matter at hand, and never mind if it angered the Forsaken. When he'd returned to his study, Demandred was gone. That had been his last visit, although Moridin had been there only the day before, of course. It was him who had ordered Mazrim to gather his men and leave forthwith for Dumai's Wells. Thankfully, Neya hadn't found it strange that Mazrim was sitting by himself at the table in the middle of the night. She knew that he slept only occasionally. It scared him a little, all the things she had been able to pick up about him since they'd met. Of course, it was only going to get worse, now.

This time, she seemed to be awakening. He felt her stretch carefully, probably to avoid waking him, and heard her sigh contentedly. "Morning," he murmured in her ear. She shivered slightly and turned to face him.

"Morning," she replied with a grin. It faded a moment later and turned into a frown. "Did you get any sleep?"

"I couldn't, you snored all night," he said wryly, lips twitching.

Her grin was back in a flash. "Yes, apparently I do that." Slowly, she raised a finger to his face, tracing the laugh line on the right corner of his mouth. "These must have come from somewhere," she whispered almost to herself. Mazrim had been a very smiling young man, until the day he'd realised what he was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled properly, let alone laughed. He shrugged lightly. What could he say? She didn't seem to expect an answer, however. A moment later, she pushed him on his back and sat astride him. Before he could do anything, however, someone called out his name from outside the tent. Al'Thor. Burn the man! Rolling his eyes, Mazrim tried to make Neya move, but she simply bent down closer to him. "Shush," she said in a low voice. "Maybe he'll go away."

"Or maybe he'll just walk in without waiting for a response," he told her with a grimace.

Again, Mazrim moved to push her away gently, but Neya turned her head toward the entrance of the tent. "Rand! I'm naked, don't come in!" she shouted before facing him once more, a devilish grin lighting up her face. He scowled at her, although he felt more amused than truly annoyed. She gave him an innocent look. "Well, I _am_ naked," she said, "and so are you," she told him teasingly. She kissed him deeply before finally pushing herself to her feet. Burn her, did she have to do that _now_? She was already fully clothed when he finally stood up. She eyed him ruefully as he gathered his breeches, chuckling. "I'll come back later," she promised before leaving the tent.

Al'Thor walked in a moment later, so impassive he would have made even a statue look lively. Sighing imperceptibly, Mazrim braced himself to face the Dragon Reborn.


	34. Take care of those you call your own

Neya felt giddy. That was the only word for it. She knew she ought to be devastated by what had happened the day before, the bloody mess, the countless wasted lives. But she just felt happy and light-hearted and incredibly  _smug_. She wandered around for a while with half a mind to find Perrin. There hadn't been any time for talking the previous day and she longed for news from home. Maybe he'd heard from Mat or Egwene, too.

She realised someone had been playing the harp when the tune stopped abruptly with a discordant note. Jay was sitting cross-legged on an upturned crate, glaring at her resentfully. She walked up to him, waiting for him to erupt in anger. He didn't, however. He didn't say anything. They stood fixing each other for a while before she finally broke the silence. "It's good to see you," she said quietly. He snorted. "I'm not going to try to justify myself again. I understand why you're angry, but surely you see why I left. This is exactly the sort of things I was talking about," she said, gesturing at the whole encampment.

"And you think your new sweetheart is any less dangerous than I was?" he asked bitterly. He sniggered as her eyes widened in surprise. "I went to your tent last night, to see how you were doing. You weren't exactly discreet, you know," he went on with a grimace.

Neya felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. She didn't regret what had happened, far from it, but she hadn't meant for everyone to know about it. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't even know you were here."

"Where else would I be?" he asked sullenly. "I'm the Dragon Reborn's lapdog, remember?"

Clearly, he hadn't become any happier about his plight since Neya had left. Which was a little odd, considering her last days in Caemlyn, before the attack on Rahvin. The former Forsaken had appeared to have come to terms with his current situation, albeit grudgingly. Her departure likely had something to do with this. "I'm sorry," she repeated. What else could she say? "But why wouldn't Mazrim be safe? He's got over three hundred trained male channelers at his back. What could possibly happen?"

"Neya," Jasin said condescendingly, "by now all the other Chosen will have their sights set on the man, if they don't effectively have him already. They won't want to waste him by removing him, should he refuse, not unless they have to, but you can be sure they'll find some way to get the Black Tower on their side before the Last Battle begins," he told her with a sneer. "Taim is doomed."

_Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine_ , Neya thought wryly. Apparently running out of encouraging remarks, Jay turned back to his harp, striking up a funereal tune.  _The March of_   _Death_ , of course. His all-time favourite. Without another word, Neya left him to his melancholy play.

* * *

She found Perrin a few minutes later, talking with what she feared was a Trolloc until she realised it held a book in its platter-sized hand. An Ogier, perhaps? It had to be. She was quite sure Trollocs weren't adept at reading. Neya made her way toward them but, before she had taken ten steps, Perrin turned in her direction, his bright yellow eyes gazing at her. It was impressive, she had to admit. The large man greeted her with a grin despite his obvious tiredness. He introduced the Ogier as Loial, son of Arent, son of Halan. " _Kiserai ti Wansho hei_ ," she murmured formally with a small bow of her head. Both of them looked at her in astonishment and she smiled timidly. The Ogier soon made his excuses and left them to talk.

"I tried to find you yesterday," Perrin told her, "but one of the Asha'man said you were busy tending to the wounded," he said with a small frown. "Healing them, he said."

She nodded. "I was. You seemed so surprised to see me yesterday. Didn't Rand tell you where I was?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "Nobody told me anything. How long has it been? That is, how long have you been… back?" he asked after a brief hesitation.

"I met Rand and Mat in Rhuidean about five months ago. Egwene was there, too. I followed them to Cairhien, fought against Rahvin's forces in Caemlyn, then I went to the Black Tower to oversee things," she filled him in quickly. She didn't feel like telling him what had happened before that. "What about you? How have you been since I… left? Mat told me you'd gone back to the Two Rivers a few months ago," she said.

Perrin nodded slowly and, not for the first time, Neya noticed how exhausted he looked. He seemed to have aged a decade since she'd last seen him. "Someone sent Trollocs through the Ways to attack the Two Rivers," he began, and she gave him an incredulous stare. Neither Mat nor Rand had ever mentioned that. She made a mental note to scold them when she next saw them. "There was a battle. We won," he said with a bitter twist of his mouth.

"Is everyone alright? I mean–"

He was shaking his head before she finished her sentence. "We lost many people. Too many," he muttered. "But your family is safe, Abell and Natti and the girls." Thank the Light for that.

There was something he wasn't telling her. "What about  _your_  family, Perrin?" she asked softly, dreading the answer. He was shaking his head again. He didn't reply. She laid a hand on his arm; she never knew what to do or say in these circumstances. Light! Deselle and Adora, and sweet little Paet. They were so young. She couldn't believe they were gone.

Perrin took a deep breath and looked at her with a small smile. "On a lighter note, I'm married."

"You're not! How dare you get married without inviting me!" she said with mock indignation. "Congratulations," she told him more seriously. "I'm happy for you. Who's the lucky gal?" she asked with unfeigned curiosity.

"Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara," he replied fondly.

"Bashere," Neya repeated. "Like… Davram Bashere?"

He nodded. "His daughter. Can you believe my wife is cousin to the Queen of Saldaea?" he said as if he still couldn't get his head around it. "She's amazing. You'll like her. Well, she's in Cairhien. I'll introduce you when we get there."

"I'm going back to the Black Tower, Perrin," she told him with an apologetic smile.

He scowled at her. "Why? You said you went to oversee matters there, but I thought Taim was in charge now."

"Oh, he is. We both are, really. He supervises the men, I handle the rest," she said with a shrug. "I can't leave. They wouldn't know what to do without me. They'd probably starve to death before the month was out," she said affectionately.

Perrin told her of the changes back home and reluctantly admitted that he had been appointed Lord of the Two Rivers. Lord Perrin Goldeneyes, they called him now, although he didn't seem particularly happy about it. Neya longed to ask him what had happened to his eyes, but she didn't want to press her friend. Perrin had a tendency to draw back on himself when you were too direct with him.

They were soon joined by a slender youth dressed in brightly coloured clothes that clashed violently. Perrin introduced him simply as Aram. The young man appeared very devoted to her old friend. She bade them both goodbye a moment later. She had to check on the Asha'man and make arrangements for departure. It was unlikely that they would stay here much longer. As she passed the black-covered bodies lying nearby, she suddenly felt more exhausted than she had since the previous day, her euphoria from earlier already evaporated.

* * *

They departed a few hours later, after a heated argument as to who should have charge of the treacherous White Tower Aes Sedai, which was eventually 'won' by the Wise Ones. Mazrim looked furious, although why he would want the women at the Black Tower was a mystery to Neya. It would only cause trouble and unnerve the men.

They arrived at the Tower around noon and, as everyone ran to their loved ones, she caught sight of Ilawen and Karys scanning the throng of men that were pouring through the gateway.  _This is it_ , she thought numbly. She walked up to meet them and gathered Ilawen in her arms. She didn't even need to speak. Karys ran away to take refuge in the barn while Ilawen sobbed in Neya's arms.

The men were buried at dusk in the small patch of land that lay behind the barn, where they had first dug Siman Proctor's resting place. Fourteen graves now occupied the space. Mazrim gave a brief but surprisingly poignant eulogy and that was the end of the ceremony. Neya remained there with the girls for a while, until Ilawen began to doze off out of sheer exertion. She carried her to their room, Karys keeping close. "Will you stay with us tonight?" the older girl asked timidly.

"Sure," Neya told her. They all settled on the bed. Ilawen was already fast asleep.

"What's going to happen to us now? Is Mazrim going to throw us out?" Karys asked dejectedly. They had taken to calling him Mazrim because of Neya's habit to do so.

"Of course not! Sweetie, nobody's going to throw you out. This is your home. Mazrim knows that," she said softly, stroking the little girl's hair soothingly. "You're safe here. I'll look after you."

"Always?" Karys whispered.

"Always," Neya replied firmly. "I promise."


	35. Slowly, and then all at once

A week later, Taril came up with a weave for the men to bond their wives. It was apparently similar to the weave that the Aes Sedai used to bond their Warders. Before Neya or Mazrim even heard about it, the Dedicated had already demonstrated it for everyone who asked. Amusingly enough, the only way he could show them was by kissing his wife and weaving the bond in place as he did so. Mazrim's eyes flashed with fury when he found out, although his face remained impassive. He told the men and Taril in particular to stop experimenting with such things without his permission and gave them all extra chores for having loitered around too long.

When Neya arrived for their daily meeting that evening, Mazrim was sitting at the table, an empty goblet in front of him. If she didn't know any better, she would have said he was brooding. She sat across from him, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. He fixed his eyes on her, scowling darkly. "I won't bond you," he declared without preamble.

She hadn't thought he would. They had spent a lot of time together since they'd come back from Dumai's Wells, but the man didn't let anything on. Neya had no clue how he felt about her. Sometimes she was afraid he considered her like nothing more than his bed warmer. Still, she had an idea. She did her best to look genuinely offended. "I certainly hope not," she replied coolly. His scowl deepened. Obviously, this was not what he'd expected. "What makes you think I'd want you to bond me? You really believe I want you to know everything I feel?" she scoffed. "We're not married, Mazrim," she told him with a small sneer.

He stared at her for a minute, clearly startled by her reaction, although as usual, it hardly showed on his face. "Right," he mumbled eventually with a dismissive gesture. Dinner was served a moment later and they moved on to business, and then to bed.

She lay on her side, and he rested behind her with an arm across her chest, as he often did. She was comfortable and beginning to drowse when he finally took the bait she had planted earlier. "We could try it tonight," he whispered in her ear. "Just for a while." He didn't specify what they were supposed to try and he didn't need to. Neya grinned widely as she turned to face him. _Hook, line and sinker_ , she thought smugly.

She had read about this concept in one of Elan's books dating from the Age of Legends. Reverse psychology, it was called. The gist of it was that you simply argued in favour of what you _didn't_ want the other person to do and, somehow, that would lead them to do exactly the opposite of what you suggested, which was in fact what you _did_ want them to do. She had struggled with the theory for a while; the phrasing had been made of uselessly complicated terms. Elan explained in plainer words, but she'd had her doubts about the method's chances of success. She was glad to know she'd been wrong.

Mazrim was gazing at her intently, eyes narrowed. "You knew I was going to say that, didn't you?" he muttered resignedly. She let out a small giggle and he sighed dramatically. "I do keep underestimating you, don't I?" he murmured, moving forward to kiss her. She shivered slightly as he did but a sudden booming awareness made her gasp. Mazrim stopped what he was doing, but Neya barely noticed. Her mind now seemed to be made of two entities.

She lay there gaping, unable to move. She could _feel_ him, not just physically, but intellectually, psychically, emotionally. They stared at each other for a long time. She couldn't even begin to understand the whirlwind that was his mind. Emotions came and went, some flickering, others glowing bright. How could the man even think with this tempest raging in his head, let alone appear so poised all the bloody time? Abruptly, his focus seemed to sharpen, and Neya felt herself blush when she identified the emotion linked to it. 

What happened next was even better than she had imagined.


	36. And in the morning, I'm making waffles

Mazrim lay behind Neya, as he often did, with an arm tightly wrapped around her shoulder. He liked it this way; when he held  _saidin_ , as he often did, he could feel her heart beating and hear her even breathing – and yes, her light snoring. He found it all very… comforting.

It had come as even more of a shock than he had anticipated, bonding her. He would never admit it to her, barely admitted it to himself, but he'd wanted her to convince him. He wanted to be close to her, no matter how wrong it was. He needed her.

He had tried to push her away; he had meant to, anyway, but he was still the man he'd been eleven years ago, when he stood on the edge of World's End. After all those years, after everything he'd been through, he was still the same wretched coward he'd always been.  _People never change_ , he reflected bitterly,  _they simply get better at concealing their flaws_.

He had known that she truly cared for him. That much had been obvious. But his expectations were a far cry from what he had felt when he bonded her: this wasn't mere attachment or endearment. She loved him. Simply, genuinely, absolutely loved him. The feeling overwhelmed him utterly, and left him speechless with wonder.

She had stared at him with a puzzled look on her face, as if she couldn't quite figure out what she was getting from him. To be fair, he had no idea how he was feeling at the time. Numb and shocked, probably. The next part had left them both dazed. It was difficult to put into words how extraordinary it was, to be merged together so completely.

He'd had no visit from Moridin since Dumai's Wells, and Demandred hadn't shown himself in weeks now. He was worried about what they would do when they found out about Neya. In his mind, there was no doubt that they  _would_  find out - he was perfectly aware that they both had spies at the Black Tower. He simply wondered when. The fact that he'd had no one's life to be blackmailed with had been his only real advantage on the two Forsaken so far.

Mazrim knew he should remove the bond; he should have cut it off the moment Neya fell asleep. It was just so reassuring, to know she was there, so real, so close to him. To know that she cared. Being a Darkfriend, and an unwilling one at that, was truly a lonely path to follow, not to mention a hazardous occupation.

She was awakening slowly, he could feel it through the bond. He rolled on his back and she turned to wrap herself around him. "Are you alright?" she asked sleepily.

"Can't you tell?"

"Not really. If anything, the bond makes you even harder to read."

"What do you mean?" he asked uncertainly.

She was silent for a time, as if considering her answer. "I don't know. It's difficult to identify what you're feeling at any specific moment because there are so many different emotions all at once."

What was she saying? That he was mad? He couldn't be. He was protected. At least that was what Ishamael had told him. Could he really rely on the word of a dead madman? Or perhaps he'd been mad even before Ishamael came along. He could simply ask Neya to Delve his mind to find out. He would have, if he'd had the nerve. Instead he rolled over her until he was lying on top of her. "What about now? Can you tell what I'm feeling?" She chuckled. Then, just as things were getting interesting, someone knocked on the door. Since it was the middle of the night, it had to be important. Peace, it had _better be_ important.

He got up, put on a robe and opened the door. For a second he thought no one was there, until he noticed the little girl staring up at him with large green eyes. It was the same girl who'd barrelled into him on the day he arrived; Ilawen, he thought her name was. She was also one of the two children Neya seemed to have taken under her wing after their father died at Dumai's Wells – and well before that, come to think of it. He crouched in front of her so as not to strain his neck. "What are you doing here, child?" he asked with all the patience he could muster.

"I can't sleep," she replied matter-of-factly. "But Karys is sleeping and I don't want to wake her. Can I stay here?" Without waiting for a reply, she pushed past him and stalked into the room. "Neya!" he heard her cry out a second later.

Standing up, Mazrim made his way back to the bed hesitantly. Surely Neya wasn't going to let the girl stay here all night, was she?

Neya had put on a robe and was sitting on the edge of the bed with Ilawen, the two of them whispering animatedly. Through the bond, he could feel Neya's concern and fondness for the child. How did she manage to care so much about so many people at once? She looked up at him and gave him an apologetic smile and a small shrug. Apparently, she  _was_  going to let the girl stay here. What was  _he_  supposed to do? It was his room!

"Can we play a game?" Ilawen asked enthusiastically.

Neya gazed up at him once more, the question plain on her face. "Fine," he said, feeling a little exasperated.

They all settled on the large bed with a deck of cards, but they didn't play for very long; after three games, the little girl began to nod off and Neya tucked her under the covers. She motioned for Mazrim to lie down next to her, cramming herself against him to leave enough space for Ilawen, who was sprawled on the left side of the bed. "Sorry about that," she said softly. "She has nightmares. They both do. That's why I sometimes spend part of the night with them."

"They shouldn't stay here. We should send them away, to an orphanage. This is no place for children, girls especially."

He felt Neya stiffen against him and received a spike of something… dangerous… through the bond. "What's that supposed to mean? What does the fact that they're girls have to do with anything? They've been here longer than you have, and they do their share of chores. Karys has even taken up the sword and trains with Saeric, too. Do you consider all women to be useless?" she asked him sharply.

Mazrim stared at the ceiling as she scolded him, feeling more baffled by the second. He hadn't said anything like that! Carefully, he turned on his side to face her as she finished speaking. She was looking at him fiercely, as if daring him to even answer. He cleared his throat. "I never said women were useless," he said, a little defensively. "I'm Saldaean, for crying out loud, I know better than anyone that a woman is as capable as any man. And I know first-hand that you're not useless. But this is a place for male channelers, not for little girls. Neya, I'm building an army of lethal weapons to be used in the Last Battle. Surely you can see why it's inappropriate for them to be here. I shouldn't have allowed families to settle here in the first place. That was a mistake. It's too late to take it back now, I know," he went on hastily when her eyes flashed, "but after what happened with Proctor, it should have been clear that this was a bad idea." He paused for a moment, inhaling deeply. "Neya, I know you care for them, but this is no place for a child to grow up, especially if their parents are not around," he told her quietly.

She was silent for a long time, and the bond was full of anger and frustration. He couldn't say if the anger was directed at him. "I  _am_  their parent," Neya said eventually. "For all intents and purposes, I am. They have no one else, and I won't have them sent to some orphanage where the Light knows what will happen to them. You can't send them away, Mazrim. Their father died for the Black Tower. They have as much right to be here as anyone else."

"Fine, they can stay here," he said with a resigned sigh. Peace, he couldn't refuse her anything, could he? "But I won't have them sleeping in my bed every flaming night." Neya snuggled closer to him without speaking. There was no need; he could tell exactly how she felt. The bond sent him waves of relief and – there it was again, that incredible, impossible love. What was he going to do about  _that_?

* * *

Atal made his way briskly toward M'Hael's house – it was really more of a mansion now, almost a palace – when Karys approached him timidly. "Excuse me, Asha'man?"

Atal gave her a bright smile. "Hey there. What's going on?"

"Have you seen my sister?"

"Nope, sorry, love. Have you asked Neya? She's usually with her."

The girl shook her head dejectedly. "I went to Neya's room but she's not there. I don't know where they are."

"Well, Neya's probably with M'Hael." She spent a lot of time there, these days, even more than usual. He had dismissed the rumour that they were lovers, at first, but Taim had certainly changed since they came back from Dumai's Wells. The man was a puzzle. "I'm going there right now. Care to join me?" he asked the girl.

She nodded gratefully. "Yes, thank you."

It was a short walk. Atal knocked on the door and waited. They heard rapid footsteps coming their way and the door flew open. It was Ilawen, he realised with faint surprise. "Karys! Come quick, there's waffles! I was going to bring you some but Neya said I should wash up first," the girl said with a grimace.

Both sisters ran inside and M'Hael walked to the door. "Asha'man," the Saldaean greeted him perfunctorily. It still flustered him slightly to see the older man. Atal had been one the first man to begin training at the Black Tower, back when it had been known only as the farm, and he had also been one of the first to be raised to the highest rank. Full of his newly acquired authority, he had felt almost invincible, like nothing could stop him.

He had been on guard duty that night, keeping watch on the entrance. The task was left to lesser Soldiers during the day, but M'Hael preferred an Asha'man to be present at night, the only time when an attack could possibly make any sense, although Atal couldn't see how anyone would be stupid enough to launch an assault on a place full of channelers. At the time, M'Hael seemed to think Aes Sedai would come barging in at any moment. Taim had appeared sometime before dawn, looking thoughtful. He stood there beside Atal for a long time without speaking; he wasn't a man to make small talk and Atal knew that – he'd already tried to engage in conversation before, to no avail. So Atal waited. "I need you to do something for me, Mishraile." M'Hael never called anyone by their first names – except Neya, for some reason. It was surprising enough that he'd even used his name at all. He usually stuck to their rank. "I need you to spy on Neya. I think she's experimenting on something I've expressly forbidden her to experiment on."

It seemed simple enough. Atal agreed without bothering to ask what the forbidden experiment entailed. He would find out soon enough. On a whim, he had turned toward M'Hael and kissed him full on the mouth. He'd been told before that he should think more before he acted, that he should ponder the consequences of his actions. He often wondered how anyone ever achieved anything, thinking so much. He preferred to act and deal with the aftermath. He felt M'Hael stiffen, obviously caught off guard, but he pushed Atal away a moment later, not unkindly. "I think you're mistaking me," he said simply.  _Well_ , Atal thought,  _it was an honest mistake_. The man was absolutely unreadable. Atal wouldn't have known if he'd never tried. It was a bit awkward after that, although M'Hael didn't make a fuss – he never did. It was done and forgotten already. "Have you considered Lothbrok?" Taim asked a moment later. "I think you might find what you're looking for there."

Trygg Lothbrok was one of the newest recruits, a stocky man in his early thirties with an impressive beard. As it turned out, M'Hael was right about the man. Atal briefly wondered how Taim could possibly know, but he didn't let it bother him. The man seemed to know everything that happened within the grounds, and most of what was going on in the world besides.

"A man arrived at the front gate half an hour ago, demanding to see you," Atal told M'Hael now. "He looked like something the cat dragged in, so we thought it better to have him at least take a bath first." He hesitated. M'Hael was studying him impassively, waiting for him to go on. "He says his name is Logain Ablar," Atal went on eventually. He would have dismissed him as insane and not bothered Taim with this at all, but the man appeared lucid enough, and was quite stubborn besides.

M'Hael frowned slightly at that. "Can he channel?"

Atal nodded. "Aye. He's strong, too, stronger than Narishma." At least as strong as M'Hael himself, as far as Atal could tell, but he wasn't about to say it out loud.

"Well then, it can't be Ablar. The man was severed months ago," Taim said dismissively.

"I know, but… He claims he's been Healed, M'Hael. By an Aes Sedai."

Taim grimaced slightly. "Brilliant. He's not a liar, he's a madman. Just what I needed," he muttered. Atal saw him check the small vial he kept in his coat pocket and shuddered involuntarily. Poison. "Bring him here," M'Hael ordered him eventually. He paused briefly as the cries of the girls having breakfast in the nearby room reached them. "In an hour," he added with a resigned sigh.


	37. Childe Logain to the Black Tower came

Logain had bathed and been given a change of clothes, a simple shirt and faded dark breeches. He'd been on the road for… Was it two weeks? Three? He wasn't sure. He'd been too focused on his destination to care about much else. Too delighted, too relieved to be able to channel again, to be free at last. The black-coated men assured him Taim would be notified of his arrival, and an arrogant, golden-haired youth came soon afterward to let him know his audience would take place in an hour. The same man – Asha'man Mishraile, he'd introduced himself – was now leading him through a crowded street, where Logain had to dodge running children and men and women hurrying in all directions. There were quite a lot of dogs around as well. Logain knew the animals enjoyed the company of male channelers, unlike cats, who preferred Aes Sedai.

The young man led him to what looked like a small palace, or a large mansion. He knocked on the door and it opened a moment later to reveal a pretty young woman with wavy brown hair. Logain smiled at her, but she didn't appear to notice. "Come on in. He's in the study." She moved away from the door to let them pass, without a glance at Logain. As he moved closer to her, he realised that the girl seemed to… glow. He remembered seeing that kind of aura around someone before, a young man who stood near the Royal Gardens of Andor when Logain was brought inside the city in a cage, what seemed like a thousand years ago. He hadn't paid much attention to it back then, but now he was curious to know what it meant – if it meant anything. There was no time, however. His guide was already walking ahead and the girl had gone back to what appeared to be the kitchen. Logain wondered if he'd just been brought in through the back door and thoroughly ignored by a servant.

Logain followed Mishraile to the next room on the right, where another man sat writing at a desk. He had his back to them. "Just a moment," he said without looking at them. They stood waiting at the door for a minute before he finally stood up. He was a tall man, close to Logain's own height, and obviously Saldaean. Mazrim Taim. "Thank you, Asha'man." The dismissal was clear in his voice. The younger man bowed slightly and departed. "Sit down," he went on, addressing Logain and indicating some comfortable-looking chairs. Logain took the one nearest to the door. Taim sat across from him and studied him for a moment. "You claim to be Logain Ablar," he said eventually.

Logain snorted. "It's not a claim, it's a fact. I  _am_  Logain Ablar. Former False Dragon and dispossessed minor Ghealdanin noble," he added bitterly. "And you claim to be Mazrim Taim." He fixed the other man's eyes steadily.

"M'Hael," the other man corrected him. Logain frowned at him. M'Hael? If his rudiments of Old Tongue served him, that meant… "It means 'leader' in the Old Tongue," the Saldaean explained contemptuously, as if he were reading his mind. It did mean that, but the fact that there was no prefix implied that he led nothing specifically or, rather, that he led everything. Literally, it would translate as 'leader of all'.  _Is it an inaccuracy on the man's part or does he really think that highly of himself?_  Logain wondered idly. "And unlike you," Taim went on, "I have people to back that claim."

Logain sneered. "Many people can confirm it for you, if you can be bothered to ask. It's like I told your men, Taim," he emphasised the name slightly, "I was captured and gentled, then I escaped the Tower – the White Tower – and made my way to Salidar, where the rebel Aes Sedai have gathered. You've heard about that, surely?" he asked with an arched eyebrow. Taim nodded sharply. "When I was there, I was Healed by a young woman named Nynaeve al'Meara. I don't know how she did it," he said truthfully, spreading his hands apart, "but I swear it's true. I will swear an oath on it, if you wish," he said with a shrug.

Taim was still studying him, his dark eyes glittering. "Would al'Thor know you?" Logain shook his head. He had never met al'Thor before. Taim was silent for another moment. "Seize  _saidin_ ," he demanded abruptly. "Hold as much of it as you can."

Logain complied without a word. As always lately, he felt relief mixed with distaste as the Power filled him. He had to admit that he had not missed the taint.  _Saidin_  surged through him as he held as much as he could safely manage without harming himself. Taim nodded briefly, more to himself than to Logain, and gestured for him to release, which Logain did reluctantly. There was a soft knock on the door, but the girl didn't wait for an answer before walking in. She carried a tray with cups and a pot of tea, as well as some biscuits. She set it down on the table then took a chair for herself and settled down with them.

Logain looked at her in surprise, then at Taim, but the man didn't say anything. He seemed lost in thought. The girl turned to Logain with a bright smile. "You're Logain?" she asked with obvious curiosity. He nodded, confused. Apparently, she was not a mere servant. "I'm Neya," she introduced herself.

Neya? The woman who supposedly ran the place with Taim? She was barely more than a girl! "Pleasure, miss," he said gallantly. He smiled once more, and this time she gave him a small grin in return. Light, she was pretty. As if reading his mind, her grin widened and he felt himself blush slightly. Taim was looking at him with narrowed eyes. Logain cleared his throat roughly. "Look, it's easy. You obviously know how to make gateways. All you have to do is find someone who knows me, and they'll tell you I'm who I  _claim_  to be."

"No, I don't think so." Taim turned to Neya. "Can you Delve him?" he asked her.

She appeared surprised by the question – although not as surprised as Logain was that the girl could channel – but she quickly rose from her seat and walked up to Logain. He looked up at her, although she was short enough that he barely had to raise his head. "May I?" she asked him. He nodded, a trifle uncertainly. She put her hands on his temples and his skin broke into goose bumps as she embraced  _saidar_. She stared at his forehead for a minute or so before finally stepping back. Taim had gone to stand by the window and was staring outside. Neya joined him and they talked softly for a moment but, no matter how he strained, Logain couldn't hear what was being said. He could have, if he'd seized  _saidin_ , but he doubted the other man would appreciate.

Their hushed conversation lasted less than a minute, then the girl came back to pour the tea. She handed him a cup and took one for herself before settling back in her chair. Taim was still standing near the window, his back to them. "When did you realise you could channel? How many years ago?" Neya asked him.

"About seven years."

She seemed to consider that for a moment. "How long were you gentled for? Almost two years?" Logain nodded sharply. This was not something he was comfortable discussing, not even now, especially with a female channeler. They lapsed into silence. The girl looked thoughtful.

Taim finally walked back to his chair. "I believe you are who you say you are," he said cautiously, "but why have you come here? You can already channel better than most. There's not much I can teach you."

What had the girl told Taim that he suddenly believed him? Could she tell if someone was lying by Delving them? "Where else can I go?" he replied bitterly. "The rebel Aes Sedai may have let me go, but the White Tower will still be on the lookout for me. Here, I can benefit from al'Thor's amnesty, just like you."

Taim nodded. "You may remain here. Neya will show you around and we will discuss further tonight." He got up once more. "I have much to attend to." Without another word, he left.

Logain stared after him for a moment. What  _had_  the girl said to convince him he was indeed himself? And why did she glow like that? He opened his mouth to ask any of these questions but she forestalled him. "How is Nynaeve?" she asked eagerly. "Did you see Egwene, too?"

He was slightly taken aback. How did she know them? "Nynaeve is… fine," he told her. "Stubborn woman. But I owe her. More than she knows, I'd wager. The other one – Egwene? – she's their Amyrlin now." She seemed to know them personally. Was she an Aes Sedai? She certainly didn't look - or sound - like one.

Neya's eyes opened wide at that. " _Egwene_  is the Amyrlin? Are you sure? A short girl, with long dark hair and large brown eyes?" Logain nodded. "Burn me!" she muttered incredulously. Then she let out an amused chuckle. "All things considered, I shouldn't be surprised. She's probably fitter for the stole than anyone else. She was always so bossy when we were younger. Always scolding us. But she's capable, and she's tough. She'll be great. She'll be the grandest Amyrlin the world has ever known, you mark my words." Logain didn't answer. From what he'd seen, the girl did appear to know what she was doing. "Anyway," Neya went on, "we should get started. I'll show you around quickly, but I have sword practice in half an hour. Come on." She took sword lessons? And she could channel, and she glowed. The girl was an enigma. Her relation to Taim was unclear to say the least. He would have to ask about that as well. As he stood up, he began to wonder exactly what he'd just walked into.

* * *

Logain met with Taim again that evening. It was a rather brief discussion; the Saldaean made excuses after barely half an hour. Neya had already explained how the ranks were attributed, so he supposed it made sense for Taim to hand out both pins from the start. Taim further explained that he gave the Asha'man more advanced lessons and that Logain was welcome to join them. Logain said that he would think about it. The older man had then proceeded to question him about his time in Salidar.

He couldn't say what it was exactly, but something about Taim troubled him – disturbed him, in fact. It might have been nothing more than his patronising, almost condescending manner towards Logain. Or maybe it was his obvious vain streak - what sort of man wore such ridiculously fancy clothes? Logain couldn't fathom vanity in a man.

In any case, Logain was fairly certain that they wouldn't become best friends any time soon.

Neya was another matter entirely. She had appeared somewhat aloof, when they were in Taim's study, but she turned out to be quite amiable. And she had an amazing smile.

She seemed to be constantly surrounded by two little girls, although neither child could possibly be her own. Neya couldn't be more than eighteen, nineteen at most. She filled him in on life at the Black Tower. Everybody was given their share of chores, except for the Asha'man, who were only occasionally given guard duty or sent on missions abroad. Logain would be given a barrack for now, until it was made clear what Taim intended to do with him. She asked him if he would be interested in taking sword practice and he shrugged noncommittally, although he supposed the exercise would do him some good, after so long. He wondered how the girl managed to even hold a sword properly, she was so tiny.

It had therefore come as a shock when he finally understood that she was in fact the one who trained the men. She must have realised that he hadn't caught on yet because she asked him to demonstrate what he could do when they reached the practice yard. She offered him a practice sword and took one for herself and they stood facing each other in the yard as the rest of the men gathered around them. He heard not a few sniggers and even outright whoops when he asked her if she wouldn't prefer he demonstrated with someone his own size or at least waited for their tutor to show up.

She gave him quite a trashing, he didn't mind admitting. She probably somewhat relied on the fact that most men were likely to underestimate her – or dismiss her entirely, as he had stupidly done – but even once he understood who he was really facing, he'd been hard-pressed to keep up with her. She was stunningly fast and more vicious than a grizzled alley cat. She hadn't seriously hurt him, of course, but his pride had taken a painful blow.

After practice, Neya had left him in the care of several Dedicated and departed to attend to other matters.

Later that afternoon, they all gathered in the large tent where dinner was served. There were so many people that they had to divide the services. The children and women ate first, then the Soldiers, and finally, the Dedicated. Apparently, the Asha'man usually took their meals in their own barracks or, in Taim's case, in his mansion.

An exception was made for Neya's two miniature escorts; apparently, Ilawen and Karys were allowed to eat whenever and wherever they wanted. He expected Neya herself to join them, but she explained that she took her meals with Taim, so they could review the events of the day.

Ilawen had apparently decided that Logain made a comfortable chair and stayed with him for a long time, pestering him with questions during the whole meal, under the amused grins of the other Dedicated. She didn't quit until Karys scolded her and told her that they should wash up and brush their teeth before Neya came back to tuck them in.

The other men who shared his table on that first day had introduced themselves earlier as Androl Genhald, Evin Vinchova and Taril Canler. Genhald appeared to be a reliable, down-to-earth man and quite capable despite his weakness in the Power. He could barely channel enough to light a candle but, the others explained, he had a special Talent for creating the largest and most incredible gateways. Genhald had to be pressed to demonstrate, but he agreed eventually. Although gateways were a novelty to Logain, it seemed improbable that the man could channel enough to make even a small one. He made six, all simultaneously and of various sizes. It was truly astounding.

Canler bragged about the weave he'd discovered to bond women and offered to show him how to do it, but Logain declined. He couldn't see the use of such a weave, not for himself, anyway.

Vinchova couldn't have been more than sixteen. He spoke very little and seemed uncomfortable at having been raised to Dedicated so fast. He appeared almost frightened of Logain, or maybe he was simply impressed by his tale of being gentled and then Healed.

Logain set to find out more about Taim and his activities. The Saldaean was obviously neglecting some of the students in favour of others, although it was unclear why some men made it into his advanced class when others did not. It didn't seem to be related to their strength in the Power, or not only related to that. The Soldiers and Dedicated didn't know what was taught during those special lessons. It seemed Taim was inflexible where discipline was concerned, although the men agreed, almost reluctantly, that he was mostly fair in that regard.

When Logain asked about Neya's place at the Tower and her relationship with Taim, he sensed a slight unease from his fellow channelers, which he interpreted to mean that they were lovers. He had suspected, of course, but it was still rather surprising. They didn't seem alike in any way. He supposed he was also a bit disappointed. He'd had half a mind to go after the girl himself.

Apparently, she was in charge of pretty much everything that didn't directly pertain to channeling, from the scheduling of meals to the repartition of the chores. The men were fond of her and spoke highly of her, although they clearly didn't approve of her relationship with Taim. Their opinion of the Saldaean was ambiguous: they didn't like him, but they seemed to respect him, if somewhat grudgingly.

After dinner, Logain walked back to the barrack that had been appointed to him and met Neya on the way. "Off to nurse your bruises?" she asked with a sly grin.

"I fear it will be some time before I regain feeling in my left arm," he told her impassively.

"Light, I'm sorry," she said, eyes wide. "I should have offered to Heal you. I don't know what I was thinking." She looked genuinely embarrassed; she wasn't making fun of him.

He let out a hearty laugh. "I'm just kidding, lass. Don't worry, I'll live. I've been through worse than that."  _Worse than you can imagine_ , he reflected sourly.

"Are you sure? It's no trouble at all." Logain shook his head amiably. His pride had taken all it could handle in one day. "Alright then. Don't let me keep you. Have a good night." She gave him a bright smile.  _Light, she's so pretty._  He gave her his best grin in return and stared at her ruefully as she made her way to the children's barracks. Well, nothing was etched in stone. Logain could be quite charming, when he put his mind to it. Taim had better watch out.


	38. My sweet, deluded little minion

Neya was starting to doze off; it was clear through the bond. She and Mazrim were lying in the bathtub; they'd been in there for a while now. It had been a long day, and a bad one at that. A cold rain had begun to fall the previous day, lightly at first, but a few hours later the land was covered in snow. The sudden shift in weather took them utterly by surprise and preparations had to be made in all urgency. It was a good thing that they could make gateways, otherwise they would have been in a pickle. Mazrim had sent some men to al'Thor at the Dragon's request as well. And then one of the Soldiers had gone mad. Again, unfortunately, they'd had absolutely no warning.

A piercing scream had been heard from the barn and several men had rushed there to find young Solomon Navolo trying to rape another Soldier's sister, a girl of barely thirteen. Her brother had been the first to arrive on the scene and he'd attempted to stop the other man, but Navolo had taken over and incinerated the lad on the spot. It had taken ten men to finally arrest and shield him – men following Ablar’s orders. Mazrim himself had only been alerted minutes later, to his greatest annoyance. He didn’t like Ablar giving orders, and less so the fact that they were obeyed without question. Still, he had to admit that the Asha’man had handled everything exactly as Mazrim would have – which possibly made it worse.

Neya was talking to Navolo when he walked in. She had dismissed everyone else; the men holding Navolo's shield were planted outside, and Ablar was doing his best to comfort the young girl Navolo had attacked. Inside the barn, the madman was crying, a frantic wail that shook Mazrim to his core. The bond echoed the lament with waves of bleakness and sorrow. Neya shook her head slightly and he knew nothing could be done for the man. That left only one option. He'd uncorked the small vial he kept in his coat pocket at all times and asked Neya to get the man something to drink. She hadn't even blinked, and he was grateful for that, although he could feel her pain through the bond. Not for herself, but for Mazrim, because she knew what it cost him to slip the contents of the vial in their drink. She knew better than anyone else.

Neya was asleep now. They should have gone to bed earlier, but Mazrim always felt dirty after such procedures, although no amount of soap could ever remove the stain of these men's deaths from his soul – provided that he still had one. He didn't like to dwell on that thought. Killing didn't become easier with time, no matter how many times he repeated to himself that it was a necessary evil.

With a sigh, he shook Neya awake gently. If they stayed in the bathtub any longer, they would melt. "Let's get to bed," he whispered in her ear. She mumbled something unintelligible in return and slowly rose out of the bathtub. Mazrim felt a slight tingle on his skin as she embraced the Source to dry herself. He got up after her and did likewise. She was reaching for her robe when he saw her froze mid-gesture. The bond went still with fear and shock. Before he could turn to face the threat, however, Mazrim realised he was shielded. He completed his movement, knowing what awaited him.

A tall, hooked-nosed man stood in the room, his dark eyes fixed on them. Before Mazrim could say or do anything, Neya knelt, head bowed. "Great Master," she murmured. Mazrim stared at her in horror, gaping. She couldn't be a Darkfriend. It was impossible. After all this time, he would have known if she was, especially with the bond. But then how could she know who–

"Must I make you kneel, Taim?" the newcomer demanded scornfully. Mazrim fell to his knees and bowed his head, imitating Neya. "Better. You will come with me, girl," Demandred went on flatly. "On your feet." Mazrim saw Neya move from the corner of his eye, but he dared not raise his head. The bond felt… numb. Was she under Compulsion? Lifting his eyes cautiously, he saw a gateway appear next to the Forsaken, although he couldn't make out the weaves, for some reason. Neya walked through it without a pause. "Do not move until I come back," Demandred told her before closing the gateway. "A foolish mistake," he stated, addressing Mazrim.

_As if I didn't know that_ , he thought bitterly. This was it, what he'd been expecting for the past few weeks. It had taken longer than he thought. What was even more bizarre, the Forsaken had come in just a few days earlier to take his report and never mentioned it. Not that it mattered now. The bond had receded to the back of Mazrim’s mind; he could barely feel Neya at all. She was suddenly far to the east. The Aiel Waste? Could that be where Demandred had established himself? That didn't make any sense. There was nothing there.

"She will be safe," the Forsaken said, "as long as you obey. You know your orders, Taim. I strongly suggest that you carry them out before my next visit. I will accept no more excuses from you." With that, he turned to step into the gateway that had just flashed back into existence. Before it winked out again, the bond suddenly sent him a flood of emotions: regret, worry, hope. And as always, love. Then it was gone.


	39. Fear me, if you dare

_You have got to be kidding me_ , Neya thought disbelievingly. Once again, she found herself at the mercy of one of the Forsaken. Honestly, it was becoming tiresome.

The knot of emotions that was Mazrim had receded to a faint impression in the back of her mind. She must have travelled a long distance for him to feel so far away. Oddly, she thought he was somewhere ahead of her, when she'd just turned her back on him. She had no idea which way was which, however. As far as she knew, she could be in the Blight or in flaming Seanchan.

Neya considered the room she'd just walked into. It was vast and very white, and decorated with tasteful furniture and a few exotic-looking plants. There was a large balcony in front of her, with colourful drapes hanging in the arched doorway leading outside. It seemed to be daytime, although she couldn't see the sun; she must have travelled very far indeed. She didn't dare even turn around to get a better impression of the rest of the room. He'd said not to move, so she didn't move. She knew better than to disobey one of the Forsaken, especially Demandred.

_Demandred_ , the one who twists the blade. Of all the Forsaken, he was the one who scared her the most. Elan used to say he was driven by his hate of Lews Therin and that nothing would make him deviate from his course once he had his mind set. He was meticulous, austere, and valued loyalty and honour above all, although his concept of honour was his very own.

At least she hadn't ended up with Graendal. Demandred was likely more dangerous, but Jay said he only used Compulsion as a last resort, unlike Graendal. Neya might retain her ability to think for herself, if she was careful.

The Forsaken joined her only moments later. Neya felt Mazrim rush back in her mind as the gateway opened behind her. The bond was a tangle of confusion and cold rage. Of course, from the way she'd reacted upon spotting Demandred, Mazrim might assume she was serving him. The fact that Demandred was there in the first place seemed to indicate Mazrim himself was a Darkfriend, or at least a puppet to the Forsaken. Jay had been right. They had gotten to him after all. Neya wondered how she hadn't figured it out, with the bond they shared. Then again, Mazrim's mind was ever a maze of feelings and emotions. Neya hadn't made much progress in reading it in the few days since he'd bonded her.

Knowing the gateway would close in an instant, Neya concentrated on sending positive emotions through the bond. It was gone again only a second later. She hoped he had caught the gist of it.

Abruptly, it dawned on her that she was alone in a room with a complete stranger and wearing no clothes at all. She did her best to cover herself with her hands and felt herself blush as Demandred came into view, although he kept his eyes on hers. The fact that he was stunningly handsome somehow made it even worse. She had recognised him right away, thanks to the photograph on Elan's copy of Barid Bel Medar's biography. He hadn't changed since the photograph was taken, thousands of years ago.

Neya lowered her eyes to fix her feet, feeling self-conscious.

"You are Neya al'Kane," Demandred said matter-of-factly. She nodded tersely. "Do you know who I am?" She nodded again. "Good. You are in the land known as Shara, if you were wondering." Shara? The land beyond the Aiel Waste? She knew absolutely nothing of it, besides the obviously exaggerated facts gleaned in Jain Farstrider's adventures. Demandred cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head until she was looking at his face. "You will look me in the eyes, girl. The only people here who keep their eyes on the floor are slaves, and as it happens, I have just abolished slavery. You will call me Bao. Sharans do not bother with second or third names or other frivolities. Is that clear?" he asked softly. She nodded once more. "Speak up, girl."

"Yes, it is clear, Bao," she muttered.

It was all she could do to meet his eyes. They were like stones; his face was so still he could have been a statue. He released his grip on her. "Good," he said again. "I have brought you here for a reason. You will be in charge of the male Ayyad." Neya frowned in confusion. He had brought her here for a specific reason? She had assumed she was serving as leverage to insure Mazrim's continued obedience or loyalty, or both. And what in the Pit of Doom was an Ayyad? Suddenly, she realised that the Forsaken hadn't even bothered to shield her. Not that she was about to try anything, of course. She knew very little that wasn't related to Healing. "They are what the Sharans call male channelers. They will be taught to channel properly in a few weeks. What I need from you now is to teach them to be… human." Her frown deepened. What was he talking about? "The Sharans are a harsh people. They have taken drastic measures to insure that male channelers would cause no trouble. They used them for breeding purposes," he explained flatly, and her face must have changed at that. "Yes, you heard correctly. They were paired with the female Ayyad, the equivalent of those so-called Aes Sedai of yours, to engender more channelers. Then, as they reached their twenty-first year, if the madness had not taken them yet, they were executed. In the meantime, they were kept in small enclosed villages, isolated from the outside world, and raised like cattle for the slaughter. None of them can read and few can even talk properly. They behave like animals." He was looking at her intensely. "I have freed them, and they have chosen to pledge their lives to me in return, but they need to be taught how to  _be_ , before they can be taught anything else."

"But… why me? You do know I'm not a Darkfriend, don't you?" she asked in a puzzled voice.

"Evidently. I am aware of your… history… with some of the other Chosen as well. But you have experience, from your time spent at the Black Tower. And you know… al'Thor." The pause before Rand's name was almost imperceptible, but it had been there. "You come from the same village. I intend to make use of that knowledge."

Light, how much had Mazrim told him? "And what makes you think I will do what you ask? That I won't try to sabotage whatever you're planning?" she asked defiantly. She would be damned if she let herself be trodden on once more without putting up a fight.

The man would have made even Lan Mandragoran look jolly. Light, but he was  _cold_. "My people in Cairhien and at the Black Tower tell me you are a Healer. Unless you are like Semirhage, and I do not think you are, that means you care about other people. When you see the Ayyad, I doubt you will even consider sabotage. They are not Friends of the Dark, and they genuinely need you." He seemed incredibly earnest, for all his stone-cold attitude and even worse reputation. And he had a point; it wasn't like Neya to leave innocent people to their fate without at least trying to help. Curse the bloody man, he knew exactly what he was doing by bringing her here.

"Alright, fine," she said with an exasperated gesture of her hands. What else could she do? "Just take me to them and I'll do what I can. Do they even speak the Common Tongue, or the Old Tongue? I don't know the first thing about this flaming place."

"You will not be alone. I have put someone else in charge while I was considering the right person for the task. His name is Mintel. He will assist you, and teach you what you need to know about Shara and its customs. He is fluent in a dozen languages, including the Common Tongue. It will not be a problem as far as the Ayyad are concerned, however. As I said earlier, most of them cannot even speak. You may teach them the Common Tongue if it is more convenient." He scowled slightly. "You will not use that language again."

That language? But he just said she could teach it to them! "I'm not following," she said slowly.

"Do not cuss, girl," he said with faint exasperation.

Oh,  _that_  language. "My apologies. Bao, may I have something to wear before you send me to the male channelers who don't know how to behave?" she asked wryly before cursing herself for a suicidal fool. Burn her, she had to watch her tongue around the man.

He stalked away without a word and came back with a plain white dress.  _Ugh, not a dress_ , she thought sourly. It had to be white, too. The colour reminded her too much of Lanfear. "Don't you have anything else, by any chance? Some breeches, perhaps?"

"Get dressed, girl. We leave in a minute." Reluctantly, she put on the dress. Demandred turned politely around as she did so, as if he hadn't been watching her for minutes when she was stark naked.

"Do you know how to mask your ability to channel from other female channelers?" he asked when she was decent.

"Um… no. I didn't even know I could do that." That was the simple truth.

"I thought not. You have not received any formal training, have you?"

She shook her head. "Formal or informal, I have no training whatsoever. I've taught myself a few things, but besides Healing, there's not much I can do," she admitted. Then berated herself for telling him that.

Demandred walked away once more and she heard him rummage somewhere on the other side of the room. She still hadn't seen the rest of it. "Lift your hair up," he commanded from behind her. She complied without hesitation and felt him place a necklace around her neck. It was heavy. When he was done, she looked down at the piece of jewellery. It was a large, intricately carved necklace of solid gold sprinkled with tiny colourful gems. It had to be gold, judging from the weight. The pattern represented exotic flowers. It was beautiful, if utterly unpractical. She scowled at the Forsaken questioningly when he planted himself in front of her once more. "It is a  _ter'angreal_ , an artefact made during the Collapse. You must not remove it under any circumstances. It will conceal your ability to channel from the female Ayyad," he explained. "My alliance with them is… tenuous. It is a work in progress."

Why was he telling her all that? Why did he appear so confident that she would do everything he asked? "Aren't you going to shield me?" she asked instead.

He arched an eyebrow. "Not unless you give me a reason to. I will trust you until you prove yourself unworthy of my trust, if you should ever be foolish enough to do that. I strongly suggest that you do not try my patience." His voice was a bare whisper as he finished. He seemed to radiate danger.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she assured him. She would sooner fight a pack of lions with her bare hands than cross Demandred. He nodded almost imperceptibly and, without another word, he opened a new gateway.


	40. Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

Logain was pelted by hail as he rapped on the back door of Taim’s mansion – or palace, or whatever this monstrous edifice was supposed to be. He could have gone to the front door, he supposed, but he knew that Taim’s study was closest to the back entrance. He waited a minute before knocking again, more insistently. Logain was about to barge in when he heard light footsteps inside. He half-hoped that Neya would open the door, but Taim himself appeared in the doorway. That was a surprise. That the man could open a door all by himself… What was next? The great M’Hael would cook his own meals? Logain did his best to keep his face impassive.

“Yes?” Taim asked, his face giving away nothing, not even displaying the irritated expression Logain was getting used to whenever they met.

“Where’s Neya?” Logain demanded without preamble. He had been looking for her for over an hour. Nobody seemed to know where she was, not even the girls. Karys was the one who’d told him to ask Taim – M’Hael, she’d called him, which was odd, because she usually referred to him as Mazrim. She’d appeared to be in a seriously bad mood. Ilawen hadn’t even talked to him, which was even more bizarre. Something was definitely wrong.

Logain had only wanted to ask Neya something unimportant, but when he couldn’t find her anywhere, he’d begun to worry. He wasn’t sure why. The incident with Soldier Navolo had shaken him, he had to admit. He’d never seen a man go mad before. And the way Taim had done away with the boy, his face expressionless, as if it were nothing… The man raised Logain’s hackles. There was something off about him, something _wrong_. Logain couldn’t shake that feeling, even though Neya seemed to trust him.

“She's not here,” Taim replied flatly. “Why?”

“No one’s seen her this morning.” In his brief experience, Neya was always one of the first people up and about in the morning. “I’m just… concerned.” Unlike Taim, Neya had appeared distraught the previous day, when she came out of the barn to check on Navolo’s victim. Logain had done his best to calm the girl, but she’d been attacked and had lost her brother in less than a minute. That was enough to perturb anyone.

“She’s running errands for the Lord Dragon. Secret errands, none of which are your business.” Taim started to close the door, as if that concluded their discussion.

That was an easy answer, and a vague one. Logain had no way to disprove it. He had never met the Dragon Reborn. “If anything’s happened to her…” he began in a threatening voice.

Taim cut him off with the trace of a sneer. “Neya can take care of herself, I assure you.” He went on before Logain could get another word out. “Dismissed, Asha’man.” Then he slammed the door in Logain’s face.

He wouldn’t leave it at that. He promised himself he would come back in the evening, if Neya didn’t reappear. And the day after that, and the next, until he learned exactly where she was. And if he found out that anything had happened to her, he would make certain Taim was held responsible.

* * *

Mazrim walked back to his study, shoulders slumping. It was an effort, to appear utterly indifferent, given the circumstances.

Ablar hadn’t been the first to ask about Neya, and Mazrim suspected he wouldn’t be the last. The girls had come barging in earlier that morning, ready for breakfast. Mazrim had recently been considering having a room made up for them in his house, and bugger the consequences. Everyone already knew about his relationship with Neya, so he doubted his men would give much interest to this latest development. Neya had assured him it gave him a better reputation among the men, to know he could care about people other than himself. Mazrim had been vaguely surprised to hear that this was what they thought of him, after everything he’d done for them. He was also concerned that it would undermine his authority somehow, but Neya had convinced him eventually. She always did.

The truth was that Mazrim wasn’t prepared for questioning. Neya had vanished only a few hours ago, and his mind still couldn’t fathom what had happened.

The most obvious explanation, no matter how unlikely, was that Neya was a Darkfriend, a spy sent to the Tower by one of the Forsaken – Demandred, in all likelihood. She had recognised the man on sight, had knelt without hesitation and called him _Great Master_. That was how Darkfriends were supposed to greet the Forsaken.

But if that were the case, why would Demandred still threaten her life to get Mazrim to do his bidding? The man was highly intelligent; he’d know Mazrim would feel betrayed and probably not care what happened to her.

Of course Mazrim did care, no matter what unlikely scenario his mind came up with. He simply couldn’t picture Neya as a Darkfriend. She was gentleness incarnate, more caring than anyone he’d ever encountered, and… And Mazrim realised that each of these qualities could be faked. Darkfriends were known to be deceitful. But how could Neya bypass the bond? The same bond that had had him worried she would realise _he_ was a Darkfriend? Could Neya truly fake her feelings for him when her soul was bared to him? He didn’t think it was possible.

He didn’t know what to make of it. And if Neya _was_ a spy – a bloody good one, then – why would Demandred suddenly remove her from the Tower? As a spy, she had access to every scrap of information regarding the Tower; she might be more useful than Mazrim himself, considering how much the men trusted her and confided in her.

None of it made sense. Mazrim sought the bond once more. Nothing had changed; Neya was alive, and far to the east. That was all he could tell with the distance; she had to be half a world away for the bond to be this useless. Idly, he wondered if Demandred knew about the bond. If Neya was a Darkfriend, she wouldn’t keep it from the Forsaken. Peace, she might even have suggested it at Demandred’s order.

And still Mazrim refused to sever it. It was his only link to her. He couldn’t feel much, but he knew she was alive. Unharmed, as far as he could make out. But of course, if she was Demandred’s puppet, the Forsaken had no reason to hurt her.

And the way Neya had felt before she disappeared through the gateway… It only added to Mazrim’s confusion. Regret? For what? For deceiving him? The worry was understandable, no matter the truth. Demandred could make anyone worry, Darkfriend or not. Even the other Forsaken had to be wary of him. The man made his skin crawl. He was as emotionless as a boulder. And hope… What could Neya possibly hope for? A promotion, perhaps. She’d certainly done a good job here at the Tower.

And love. Mazrim couldn’t understand how anyone could fake that specific emotion. In his wildest moments, he imagined that Neya might have started out as a spy, had gotten close to him on the Forsaken’s orders, and ended up falling in love with him for real. Which might explain why Demandred was taking her back now, and still expected Mazrim to do his bidding.

His mind was roiling with improbable thoughts and maddening possibilities. It could very well drive him insane, if he wasn’t careful. It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept at all last night, though that was hardly surprising.

In his distress, he hadn’t even thought about the consequences of Neya’s sudden disappearance, not until Karys and Ilawen had shown up as if it were a perfectly normal day.

It seemed odd that Logain would come demanding answers so early, however. Neya could have been anywhere, even out of the Tower, at this hour. She sometimes made purchases herself, with an Asha’man as escort – she couldn’t make gateways. It shouldn’t be that distressing that she couldn’t be found – not yet.

But Ablar was already suspicious of him, Mazrim could tell. It wasn’t simple dislike he read in the man’s expression. Mazrim would need to make an announcement before the end of the day, before rumours began spreading, otherwise Ablar would take this chance to attempt a mutiny. He would try to take over; Mazrim could tell the man wasn’t satisfied with his own position at the Tower, although he’d only been here for a few days. Logain would readily accuse Mazrim of murder, no doubt. Mazrim had read the disapproval on his face the previous day, after he’d poisoned Navolo’s wine. He would make his case, beginning with that. And Mazrim suspected that some men, possibly more than he cared to admit, would join Ablar’s side. Mazrim may have most of the Asha’man on his side, but Ablar had gained most of the Dedicated and Soldiers’ trust and respect in the short time he’d been here.

It was Ilawen who'd indirectly given him an idea earlier that morning. She was wearing a dragon pin – she had pestered him for days, and worn him out in the long run. “Neya was recalled by the Lord Dragon,” he’d told the girls.

This was perfect. Al’Thor hadn’t deigned to visit them in weeks, not even after Dumai’s Wells. He rarely sent messages. No one else but Mazrim ever talked to him. The men couldn’t possibly verify the information, and they knew Neya was tied to the Dragon Reborn – al’Thor had sent her to the Tower to see his little pet project through. It was entirely plausible.

“When will she be back?” Ilawen had asked with a pout.

Mazrim had done his best to smile reassuringly. “As soon as possible, I’m sure. She was sorry she couldn’t say goodbye to you, but there was no time.”

They would be sad for a few days, Mazrim judged, but it would pass.  They were children. They would forget. Ilawen’s span of attention was particularly short, although he suspected Karys was another matter. She was quite stubborn, for one so young, and smarter than most of his Asha’man.

As expected, Karys had frowned. “She promised she would look after us. Are _you_ going to look after us while she’s gone?”

Mazrim had hesitated. He hadn’t thought of that. Neya – the Neya he thought he knew, who couldn’t possibly be a Darkfriend – would want the girls to be safe. And they wouldn’t be safe with him, not with Neya gone. The Tower could become a very dangerous place, Mazrim realised, with Neya gone. She was the glue that held everything together. And now that Ablar was here, with his willingness to sow distrust in the hearts of Mazrim’s men…

“No, I’m afraid not,” he’d admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “I’m too busy to do that. In fact…” He paused to take a deep breath and did his best to look stern. “You cannot come here any longer. It perturbs my schedule to have you around, and without Neya, it will only make it worse.” He hated to say it, hated the look on their faces. But it had to be done. “You should stick with those Dedicated you like to bother so much.” He struggled momentarily to find the men’s names. “Genhald and Canler. The Two Rivers men – Dowtry and the rest. They come from Neya’s native village. I’m sure they’ll look after you.” They were the least likely to be Darkfriends, in Mazrim’s opinion. He wasn’t keen on advising them to stay close to Logain, who spent much of his time with the Dedicated he had just named. He didn’t trust the man. For all Mazrim knew, _he_ was a Darkfriend, with orders from another Forsaken to dislodge Mazrim and take over.

He couldn’t trust anybody. Peace, he wasn’t even certain who among his recruits – the men to whom he gave ‘special lessons’ – was a Darkfriend. Most of them certainly fitted the description, but over the years, Mazrim had come to realise that appearances could be deceiving. He’d met Darkfriends who were little older than Karys, and others who were old enough to be grandparents, men and women alike, high and low. Of course, Darkfriends never revealed their true nature unless ordered to by their master or mistress – which explained, at least, why Neya hadn’t told him anything, if she truly was a Darkfriend.

Mazrim was certain that every living Forsaken had spies at the Tower – as well as some Aes Sedai, rebels or not, al’Thor, and several kings and queen besides. Perhaps even the Whitecloaks and the Seanchan. So far, however, Mazrim had done nothing to tick them off – although Ablar had remarked upon the fact that several Dedicated should be allowed to become Asha’man. They weren’t Dreadlord material, but Mazrim couldn’t just tell him that.

Mazrim’s orders, which had been relayed to him on his very first day at the Tower, were to recruit as many men as possible for the armies of the Shadow – a new generation of Dreadlords. So far, Mazrim hadn’t been trying very hard to find such candidates, beyond the few who stood out, like Coteren or Torval. He certainly hadn’t given in to orders to Turn students to the Shadow against their will. Now he knew that he didn’t have much choice. The Last Battle was approaching, and he had Neya to consider. He doubted that Demandred – or Moridin – would simply remove him from his position, but they could make his life a lot more difficult. And painful. And if they knew about the girls – he had to assume they did, although Demandred hadn’t mentioned them – he would be truly helpless to refuse them. Neya could take care of herself, to an extent, but Karys and Ilawen… He couldn’t risk it.

Ilawen had looked crestfallen, but Karys was more angry than sad. Perhaps it was best if they were angry with him. If they hated him. Whatever he did in the weeks to come, it wouldn’t matter to them, only comfort them in their opinion that he was a terrible person.

“Go now,” he’d told them, “and don’t come back here.” He’d gazed pointedly at Ilawen. “I mean it. Under no circumstances are you to trespass here. Is that understood?” The Light knew what they might witness in the future, if they came here uninvited.

Karys was already on her feet, positioning herself in front of her sister as if she feared Mazrim might harm her. “Crystal clear. We won’t be bothering you again, _M’Hael_.” Her tone had been colder than he would have thought possible, coming from a child her age. Ilawen had tried to protest, but her sister was already hauling her away from him.

Well. Convincing the girls he’d tolerated them only because of Neya: check. Now all he had to do was turn every single one of his pupils into a mindless soldier for the Shadow.


	41. If I look back I am lost

Mintel proved to be a spry old man with no hair and very few teeth left. He had a blind eye and two fingers missing on his left hand. He was an  _abrishi_ , a man who devoted his life to help the people of Shara. That help could come in many ways, by fighting or teaching or even farming. The  _abrishi_  were part of an order as old as Shara itself that served Kongsidi, who was some kind of revered god, possibly the Sharan equivalent of the Creator. The men who wished to join the order went through a series of trials that lasted over two years. Any man could decide to join the order at any age, be he a convicted murderer, a wealthy noble or a simple sheepherder. The  _abrishi_  were highly respected and it wouldn't occur to anyone to do them harm; it was considered extremely bad luck, and was punishable by death.

Mintel had… adopted… Bao when the Forsaken first arrived in Shara, a little less than two years ago. From what Neya gathered, Demandred had been posing as a slave when he met Mintel – he still was, in fact, although he had somehow managed to climb high in the hierarchy of the land. The  _abrishi_  had taught Demandred the ways of the land, its customs and traditions. Bao's appetite for knowledge was insatiable; he wanted to know everything there was to know of the history and various points of interest of Shara. Neya thought Mintel was aware that the man he sometimes referred to as his 'son' was in fact somebody else entirely. It didn't seem to trouble him, however.

Neya quickly decided that they were going to get along just fine. The old man was astonishingly knowledgeable and seemed to consider it his mission in life to spread that knowledge to anyone who would listen, and Neya was indeed willing to listen. During her first day and most of that night, Mintel gave her a cursory account of Sharan customs as well as some insights regarding his fellow countrymen.

After Demandred's – Bao's – explanations, Neya had been afraid of what she would find when they arrived at the male Ayyad's encampment. Her fears had all been justified. Bao had told her that most of them couldn't talk intelligibly. Well, that was true; also true was the fact that they could barely dress on their own or even feed themselves properly. They truly were little more than animals. Bao was right; she could never walk away from this. She had to help them.

There was an exception, however. Only one, among over a hundred, but it was better than nothing. Kalayaan was nineteen. He was only a little taller than Neya, scrawny and dark-skinned. His face was tatooed; Mintel explained that this was the mark of the Ayyad. Kal could speak the Common Tongue as well as the most spoken Sharan dialect and even had rudiments in the language they called  _isleh_ , or Ancient, which was the Sharan equivalent of the Old Tongue, although the two had little left in common. He could read and write as well, although his writing was difficult to decipher. He had a dark, twisted sense of humour and more nerve than a dozen mercenaries.

Kal never told her this in as many words, but Neya quickly figured out that the guards who used to keep watch over the male Ayyad, whom Kalayaan referred to as their 'caretakers', had made him their… plaything. That was how the boy had acquired so many skills. For every 'favour' he did them, he received something in return. A book, some extra food, clean water to wash, wine. The books were Kalayaan's most treasured possessions; that was how he had taught himself to read and write, although Neya couldn't begin to understand how he'd managed that on his own. In any case, it was one of those precious books who had allowed him to take a name for himself. As Mintel explained, none of the other Ayyad had one.

It was agreed with Mintel that the first thing to see to would be to give everyone a name, although even explaining the concept took half a day. Kalayaan asked her if he could choose the names himself, since he knew the other boys better than she did. She agreed, and by the end of her first day, they had entered the names of each Ayyad in a ledger.

Their age, on the other hand, was known. A line had been burnt into the skin of their left arm for every passing year.

Not all of the boys had Kalayaan's dark skin. Although that seemed to be a common attribute in this land, some Sharans were as pale as Neya. That was due, Mintel explained, partly to slavery and trade. The Aiel were known to trade trespassers for special merchandises, like silk or ivory. Those trespassers were usually sold as slaves to the nobility or given away as servants to the Temple. It was also due to the fact that Shara was vast – much larger than Neya had imagined – and that according to the region they originated from, skin colour as well as various other physical characteristics varied drastically – just like in the Westlands.

Of course, most of the Ayyad hadn't channeled yet. The few who had touched  _saidin_  before Bao freed them had been executed, and the rest were simply too young; the eldest was twenty-two, the youngest eleven. Children under ten were kept together with the female Ayyad children in yet another 'village'.

There were a handful of channelers so far, including Kalayaan. The most surprising of them was a gigantic youth of twenty who, according to Bao himself, had the potential to match him when he reached his full strength. Unfortunately, the young man, whom Kalayaan had decided to name Abrazo, appeared to be slow-minded. Kalayaan had taken him under his wing from a young age and they were as close as brothers. The man responded to his name so promptly that it was likely Kal had been calling him that for years.

Bao had already given lessons to the few Ayyad who could channel to prevent any incident but, apparently, he was now too occupied to do so. Kalayaan would therefore be taking care of that until someone else could be appointed; the young man truly had taught himself all sorts of things, and he was blessed with a strong instinct of self-preservation.

Neya and Mintel spread themselves between the boys to teach them to talk. These lessons would be the only ones dispensed during the first week, until everyone could at least understand and repeat the most basic words. Just as she had done at the Black Tower, Neya created a planning to divide up the chores between the Ayyad, taking into account that a third of them were little more than children.

The first days went by in a flash. They were working the Ayyad – and themselves in the process – hard. Neya fell asleep at night as soon as her head hit the pillow, which she considered a blessing. She had little time to think about everything she’d left behind. About Mazrim, and Karys and Ilawen.

Mazrim was a Darkfriend – Demandred had confirmed it. According to the Forsaken, he’d been a Darkfriend for a long time. She still couldn’t process the information. It didn’t feel right. Mazrim cared about her; Darkfriend or not, Neya was certain of that. He cared about the men for whom he was responsible. He cared about his reputation, about what people thought of him. But that was only human. Darkfriends… Well, Neya had met only a few. But they _were_ human, with strengths and weaknesses and feelings. She often wondered if some of them weren’t simply misguided, not truly evil in nature. Not unlike Jasin, in fact.

She couldn’t tell how Mazrim felt through the bond. He was too far away. Neya wondered if Demandred was aware of their connection; he had made no mention of it. But if Mazrim served him, surely he would have told the Forsaken.

What concerned her more, however, were the girls. Light, they would think Neya had abandoned them. Unless Mazrim had made something up to cover Neya’s disappearance. He would have, most likely; people would notice that she’d gone missing and wonder about it. Or perhaps she was just fooling herself. They had other things to worry about, certainly.

It was so frustrating, not knowing what was happening at the Black Tower. She was no longer afraid of what would happen to her – it was clear that Demandred had plans for her and meant for her to live, at least for the time being. But Light, she was angry.

She made good use of that anger. She channeled it into her work, as she might channel Healing weaves into a wound. Thankfully, and although it required amounts of patience she didn’t know she had, most of the male Ayyad learned quickly enough. Knowing that she was making a difference helped, somewhat. Not enough that she would soon forget about the life she'd almost had, though. She'd been so close to having a family, and a normal life - or what passed for it in these troubled times. Now she was convinced it would never happen. Not to her. There was something wrong with her, and instead of fighting it, Neya was slowly resigning herself to it.


	42. Thy people shall be my people

Bao visited the camp at the end of Neya’s first week in Shara to assess the situation and appeared satisfied with what he saw. He didn't actually say anything as he surveyed the boys and received Neya’s and Mintel's reports, but she assumed it meant they were doing a good job, otherwise the Forsaken would have said something.

Bao was accompanied by a slender Sharan woman, a non-channeler as far as Neya could tell. She was handsome rather than beautiful, and in her late thirties. She bore no tattoos – a sign that she was neither an Ayyad nor a former slave. The woman spent the entire time she was there fixing Neya with appraising eyes, although she never said a word. As he finished his round, Bao approached Neya, leaving the other woman behind. "A word, please?" he said, gesturing toward the tent Neya had taken as her own. He was quite polite, she had to give him that.

When they were settled – sitting cross-legged on the floor; apparently, chairs were considered an oddity in Shara, at least by the less favoured side of the population – Bao fixed her with a level stare. "Tell me what you know of al'Thor."

"He's the Dragon Reborn," Neya blurted out without thinking.  _Watch your tongue, woolhead. He's not a man to banter with._  He’d warned her that he would use her knowledge of Rand, but Neya hadn’t had time to prepare for questioning. She wished she could improvise a few lies on the spot, but she was a terrible liar, and she didn’t want to be caught in the act. "I mean," she went on hastily, "he's stubborn. He's kind, and honest. At least that's how he used to be," she amended after a brief hesitation.

"What do you mean?" There was no infliction in his deep voice, no expression on his face. Light, but the man was difficult to read.

Neya considered for a moment before replying. She didn’t want to give away too much, if she could help it. "He's changed. When I saw him in Rhuidean six months ago, I barely recognised him. Mostly it was the way he dressed and carried himself, but his behaviour, his manners were different, too. He's… harder… than before. I think he's trying to steel himself for what's coming, except he's going about it the wrong way."

"How so?" Bao asked in all seriousness, as if he was genuinely interested in her opinion.

"He thinks that if he stops caring about what happens around him, it will somehow render him strong enough to do what he must do, which involves people dying for him, involves  _women_  dying for him. He hates that, that women might die for him," Neya said, talking almost to herself. Then she realised she probably shouldn’t have said that. It was a considerable weakness, one that the Forsaken could easily exploit. _Blood and ashes, have my wits deserted me?_ "But he's wrong,” she went on, trying to change the subject. “I think he is, anyway. He's making himself harder, when he should become stronger."

Bao frowned. "What difference is there?"

"Strong endures, hard shatters," she murmured. "The less he allows himself to care, the more he's likely to break. He  _will_  break, eventually. He wants to do it all by himself, so that only he will suffer the consequences of his actions. He refuses to trust anyone. After Dumai's Wells, I can't blame him for that. But he can't do it all on his own. He can't win  _Tarmon Gai'don_  by himself."

"You make some good points, but I think he has the right of it. What would you do differently? Trust heedlessly? Allow those closest to you to die because you cannot bear to send them away?" The intensity in his voice almost made it tremble; his eyes seemed to glitter. Not in anger, at least Neya didn't think so.

"Of course not," she said matter-of-factly. "He can't afford to trust anyone completely. But he has to rely on others, to an extent at least. And there will be casualties no matter what he does, whether he cares or not. He has to retain some humanity, if he wants to live long enough to even reach the Last Battle. I think it's a matter of balance," she mused. "He hasn't found the right balance yet. He must care, and trust. Not too much, not too little, but enough." She shrugged. "But what do I know? The fate of the world rests on his shoulders. I can't imagine what that's like," she whispered.

Bao was still gazing at her intensely, but it lasted only a moment longer. The next instant his face was stone once more. "What can you tell me about Aybara and Cauthon?"

Neya looked up at him. Did he know that Mat was her brother? Mazrim didn't know – at least, she didn't think he did. Still, Demandred had spies everywhere – all the Forsaken did. "What do you want to know?" she asked, more sharply than she intended. She really had to be more careful.

"They are both  _ta'veren_. That means they are important, somehow. I understand they are friends of al'Thor, but what are they like? What are their skills? Their weaknesses?"

Neya almost chuckled out loud. Apparently, he didn't know much about them. Well, she certainly wasn't about to enlighten him. Vagueness would do, unless Bao realised she was withholding too much information. "They're both good men, reliable and honest. Two Rivers men. Well, Mat likes to gamble, but he never cheats. Or so he claims,” she added with a small smile. “Perrin is solid, patient. He's a blacksmith. If he has any other skills, I don't know about them." Neya shrugged, hopefully in a properly detached manner.

"You grew up with them. You can do better than that," Bao warned her, his voice dangerously soft.

Neya swallowed involuntarily. "Mat is good with a quarterstaff and he's a decent bowman, like most Two Rivers men. He's… unwillingly smart. That is, there's more to him than people think. He's the kind of person who would jump right into danger to save you, and deny doing anything out of the ordinary when you thank him afterward. His weaknesses… I don't know. He likes pretty girls, he enjoys a drink or two. I already mentioned the gambling."

"Better. And Aybara?"

"Like I said, he's reliable and patient. He's strong as an ox, so he's always very careful around people, because he’s afraid he might hurt them. He's not very talkative, because he likes to think things through before speaking his mind. I don't know what his weaknesses are,” Neya said truthfully. She thought about it for a moment. “Maybe he's  _too_  careful?” she ventured. “I mean, maybe he might miss an opportunity because he was too busy pondering the consequences. I don't know," she said, shaking her head slowly. "He's a decent archer as well. And he was wielding an axe, last time I saw him, at Dumai's Wells." She didn't mention that he was married, or that he had been appointed Lord of the Two Rivers, or even that his eyes glowed a bright burnished gold. If Bao knew about these facts, he made no mention of them.

The Forsaken nodded briefly. "That will do, for now. What about the al'Vere girl?"

"Egwene?" Light, was he going to demand a detailed report of everyone in Emond's Field? Neya considered what to tell him. "She's smart, capable, self-assured. She's tough as nails. She's maybe a bit… self-righteous. Moralising. But she's practical, and she knows sense when she sees it. Her skills, as far as I know, involve a decent knowledge of herbs and plants, because she was apprentice to our Wisdom. She's a powerful channeler. She learned with both Aes Sedai and Wise Ones and even with the Seanchan, however unwillingly. She hates the Seanchan, by the way," she added, although it seemed self-evident. "And she's the Amyrlin, the leader of the rebel Aes Sedai, but I suppose you already know that."

Bao didn't bother to answer. "And Nynaeve al'Meara?"

The Wisdom? What did she have to do with all this? Neya knew she was part of the group that had left Emond's Field with Rand, but she had no idea what Nynaeve had been up to recently. Was she still in Salidar? Should Neya mention what Logain had said about her Healing him? No, Bao probably knew that already; Mazrim must have recounted Logain's story. "Um… I haven't seen Nynaeve in over two years, and we were never very close. She's fierce, I can tell you that much. That ought to be known across the Westlands, at least. Light, even the Sharans must have heard her throw a fit once or twice," Neya said with a small grin, remembering a few such occasions when it seemed the whole world must be aware than the Wisdom was in a dire mood. Nynaeve could make grown men cower in fear; Neya had always been jealous of that ability. She doubted Nynaeve would have allowed a Forsaken to capture her, let alone three.

Bao looked at her impassively, obviously waiting for more.  _Tough crowd_ , she thought wryly. She cleared her throat. "She's a Healer at heart. She will scold you relentlessly for not putting on a scarf and getting a well-deserved cold, but she won't rest easily until she's certain the fever has broken. She's intent on curing everything and will be devastated if she can't help someone. If anyone ever figures a way to Heal death, it will be Nynaeve al'Meara." The Wisdom had already accomplished one seemingly impossible feat; there was no telling what else she would do. All in all, it seemed like a fitting description, although Neya hadn't been lying about not having seen the Wisdom in a long time. She thought Nynaeve was probably the less likely to change, in any case. Bloody stubborn woman.

It seemed to satisfy Bao. He was unfurling from his position on the ground. "Wait," Neya said. He gave her an ominous look. "I mean, please, if I may ask a question before you leave, Bao." That ought to be polite enough without sounding too servile. He sat back and gestured for her to go on. "Why are you so intent on this particular bunch?" He frowned slightly. "The Ayyad, I mean. Most of them are younger than me, and those are not likely to be able to channel anytime soon. I'm not sure when the Last Battle will begin in earnest, but I doubt they'll be anywhere near ready when it does. Besides, how do you even know they will channel at all? The ability does not pass on genetically, does it?" This was something she hadn't thought to ask Elan or Jasin.

Bao was silent for a moment. Neya wasn't sure if he was considering his answer or deciding whether to answer at all. "There is a genetic factor," he told her eventually.

"But most of the channelers out of the Two Rivers didn't have parents who could channel, and look how many channelers were discovered there, both men and women," she pointed out. She didn’t say that her own father had had the spark; Mazrim must have mentioned it already.

"It is not a requirement, it simply increases the odds. In my days, what you call the Age of Legends, not many channelers had children."

"Why is that?" she asked curiously.

"Because most of us chose not to settle down. A channeler's lifespan is a long time to spend with the same person. Lews Therin was an exception in that regard. He married young, when he was barely two hundred and sixty, and he was a great-grandfather by the time the War of Power began. It was quite unusual. The few channelers who decided to start a family waited until they were in their later years. But even then, it was uncommon."

"But did they marry channelers or… other people?" She had almost said 'commoners'. Elan and Jasin had often used that term, but she found it a bit pejorative. "It must be difficult to watch your husband or wife die of old age when you still have decades or centuries to live."

"They married one or the other. Sometimes one and then the other. But death did not affect us the way it affects people nowadays. People lived long, full lives, and accepted death as a part of life. It was just a new beginning, a turning of the Wheel. That was before the Collapse, however. As the days grew more sombre, people would often wonder if the Pit of Doom did not await them instead." Bao fell silent once more.

"But about the boys…" Neya prompted him politely. "Even if they all have the spark, it will be years, months at the very least, until they can even touch  _saidin_. So why do you put so much effort into tutoring them?"

"They are my people," Bao replied simply. "They have pledged their lives to me." Well, that wasn't much of an answer. Did he actually care about these people? Neya had assumed he was using them, taking advantage of their ignorance to manipulate them into doing his bidding. Could they have grown on him? It was worth considering. If he did care, it certainly didn't fit the picture Jasin had painted of him. But to be fair, Jay didn’t like the man, and he had a tendency to unjustly discredit the people he didn’t care for. Elan had mentioned how much Demandred valued loyalty, however.

Neya had more questions, but she could tell from the look on Bao's face that their conversation was at an end. It didn't matter; she would ask Mintel. The Forsaken left without another word, taking his woman with him. The Sharan gave Neya a last calculating glance before stepping through the gateway after Bao.

Kalayaan came to stand by her side after they’d vanished. "What did he say?"

Neya shrugged. "Not much, really. He wanted information. Do you know who the woman is?"

"Shendla."

Neya turned to face him with an arched eyebrow. "That doesn't tell me much."

"That's all I know."

"Is she his…?" She wasn't sure how to put it. She didn’t even know why she was asking.

Kal’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. "You would think so, the way she follows him around and looks at him as if he'd put the stars in the sky, but I'm not so sure," he told her indifferently. He was the only male Ayyad who didn't seem to consider Bao like a demi-god. "Mintel might tell you more. I think he knows her."

"Kal, what happens to the male channelers who aren't born of the Ayyad? Or the female channelers, for that matter?"

He looked at her blandly. "How would I know?"

"Right.” He’d spent his entire life in a compound the size of Emond’s Field, a dingy camp lost in the middle of nowhere. Everything he knew came from books. “I suppose I'll have to ask Mintel about that as well.” Neya sighed, steeling herself to face the remainder of the day. “Back to work, then."


	43. De oppresso liber

It wasn't until late evening that Neya could finally afford to take a break. She found Mintel near the well, smoking his pipe and reading in the light of a single candle. "You'll ruin what's left of your eyesight, reading like that," she told him with mock sternness. They spoke a mix of languages when addressing each other – the Common Tongue, the Sharan dialect, _isleh_ , the Old Tongue. Neya wanted to progress in the Sharan dialect quickly because, ultimately, she thought it best for the Ayyad to learn that language. The Common Tongue was rarely used in these parts. Foreigners had never been welcome in Shara. The Aiel were tolerated near the Waste border, but only long enough for them to trade their goods.

Mintel grinned at her, showing his six remaining teeth. "There's not much left to ruin. You look like you have questions, child."

"I always have questions," she said brightly. "Who is Shendla?" The old man chuckled softly. "What? What's funny?"

"She is not his lover, if that is what you wish to know," he said with an amused chortle.

Neya frowned at him. "That was not  _specifically_  what I wanted to know, no. Why should I care if she's his lover or not?" Her eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Mintel!" she said, truly offended now. "Are you out of your mind? Light burn you, I don't care about him!" she told him fiercely. It wasn't the first time the  _abrishi_  had made such allusions, and Neya had only been here for a few days. Why would he ever think that? "I'm just curious about her, that's all. She spent her whole time here staring at me, and I'd like to know why."

"It's a shame, you would be good for him," Mintel said with yet another guffaw when he saw her outraged stare. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright. Shendla is a scholar with great knowledge of the history of our land. She is in charge of the archives at the Library."

"Why would Bao need to keep a librarian at his side?"

"I believe he is trying to find a specific artefact, or perhaps several artefacts, and they are working together to localise them," Mintel replied.

"What kind of artefact?" It had to be an  _angreal_  or a  _ter'angreal_ , most likely, although why Demandred thought he could find anything useful in this Light-forsaken land was beyond her.

"I'm not sure. It seems he has managed to acquire part of it months ago, just before the Revolt, but he appeared quite… disappointed… when he found it." The hesitation seemed to imply that Bao had been enraged rather than disappointed. But what kind of artefact could be separated into several pieces?

"What was it, the part he found?" Mintel shook his head. He didn't know. "What happened exactly? Why was there a rebellion?"

"Not just a rebellion, a revolution," Mintel corrected her. "Bao wished to penetrate inside the Grand Blessed Citadel to obtain this object. We accompanied him to Kigali, the northernmost city on the side of the Aiel Waste. The mass execution was scheduled at noon that day. Fourteen slaves were to be hanged."

"Why? Were they criminals?"

The old man shook his head. "Not criminals. Slaves." He looked up at her with a sad smile. "There is much you do not yet know about our customs,  _mala_." She wasn't sure what the word meant in  _isleh_ , but in the Old Tongue, it would translate to something like 'daughter', with a denotation of importance. It was probably a term used by the  _abrishi_  toward younger people, since he called the boys – as well as Bao – either 'son' or 'child' or their Ancient equivalents. "Mass executions take place – or they did, before Bao outlawed them – on the Feast of All Hallowed Ancestors. They served as a reminder to the slaves that they must not attempt to rise against the people who own them."

Neya still had trouble coming to terms with slavery and all it entailed. It was a concept she had never been confronted with before, and one she could not comprehend. Demandred may be what he was, but she supported his decision to render it illegal. "Are you saying," she asked Mintel with mounting horror, "that every year, they simply picked some slaves at random and hanged them just for show?"

Mintel sighed deeply. "Yes. The guards would choose seven women and seven men, indiscriminately, and all the other slaves present in the area would be assembled to witness the hanging. Bao reacted in the same repulsed manner when he found out, you know. You and he are not as dissimilar as you seem to think,  _mala_ ," he went on idly.

She let that last remark slide. Light, but the old man could be stubborn. "But why?" she asked instead. "Were there many attempts at rebellion, that they would need to remind them every year?"

"Only one, six hundred years ago, as far as I know. Shendla may be able to tell you more."

Only one attempt in six centuries, and they still worried about an uprising. Well, in the end, it seemed they had gotten one. "I assume Bao freed the slaves and prevented their execution, somehow," she said.

Mintel nodded. "Bao was beside himself when he finally came out of the Citadel. He saw the gallows, blasted them apart, killed the executioner and the guards, thus revealing his ability to channel to all. The slaves… They were waiting for this," the  _abrishi_ went on. "For something like this. It is mentioned in the Prophecies.  _'There will come a man who will sow chaos and dissension, and sever all bonds, breaking all men free of fate's chains.'_ "

"Prophecies?" Neya repeated with a frown. "You mean the Prophecies of the Dragon?"

The old man shook his head. "Our prophecies are not yours,  _ulikar_." That meant 'outsider', Neya knew. It was one of the first words of the  _isleh_  language she had picked up since her arrival, mainly because Kal used it so often to address her. It was the first time Mintel had employed it, however. "But if you want to learn more, you must ask Shendla. It is her… area of expertise."

"And the female Ayyad? What's their part in all this?" Neya asked. If Shendla wasn't one of them, Neya had yet to meet one, which often caused her to wonder why Bao had bothered to give her the necklace  _ter'angreal_ that concealed her ability to channel.

"The Revolt put the higher spheres in turmoil. Bao declared all slaves freed, men and women and children, and they all turned against their former masters. It was bloody. Bao put an end to the carnage after a few weeks by uniting both sides, the Freed on one hand and the leaders of our nation, the female Ayyad, on the other."

"The Ayyad are leaders of Shara? I thought it was the… Sh'botay?" She wasn't sure of the name, or title, or whatever it was.

Mintel barked a rough laugh. "They are purely ornamental, the Sh'botay and his consort, or the Sh'boan and hers. The female Ayyad rule over Shara as surely as the sun rises in the east. Have you not wondered why the Sh'botay or Sh'boan dies after seven years of reign?"

"The Will of the Pattern?" She'd heard or read that somewhere. "But it makes much more sense that the Ayyad orchestrate it," she granted. "But why? And why have they suddenly removed them altogether?" The latest Sh'botay and his consort had vanished weeks ago.

"I do not believe it was the work of the Ayyad. Strange things are happening. The Dragon has been Reborn in the West, the Wyld has been revealed in the East. The Prophecies are becoming reality. Both ours and yours, it seems," he added thoughtfully.

Neya chewed on that for a long time. She wondered if she could lay her hands on these Sharan prophecies somehow. Demandred was clearly using them to his advantage, manipulating the Sharans into believing he was their… Wyld. Was he supposed to be their saviour, or something like that?

Light. Rand probably had no idea where Demandred had established himself, and here he was, gathering an entire nation to fight for the Shadow in the Last Battle. Neya had to warn him somehow, or disrupt Demandred's plans, if she could.

"Mintel, what happens to the channelers who are not born of the Ayyad?" she asked abruptly. She had almost forgotten about that.

"The women are brought to the female Ayyad, to serve them. They are not considered well-bred, you see, so they cannot be allowed to channel or to hold high offices, unlike the other Ayyad. It is believed that they are cursed." Pretty much what she'd expected. Sharans held to some truly barbaric beliefs. She braced herself for the rest. "The males are severed and executed on sight by the authorities, although it rarely comes to that."

"Why is that?" she asked with a scowl.

"Family and friends who discover a male channeler among them will usually take care of the matter themselves." She gaped at that. It was even worse than she had thought. "It is customary," the old man went on conversationally. "It is considered bad luck and worse to be acquainted with a male channeler in any way. People will therefore dispose of these poor souls swiftly and as discreetly as possible."

Neya was shaking her head in disbelief.  _Then again_ , she thought,  _is the Red Ajah's way preferable? The men are stilled, not killed, but is it really a kinder fate?_  She thought of Mazrim and his little vials of poison.  _A mercy_ , he had told her. Just because the Sharan way was not the one she was used to, meant it was worse. Maybe there simply was no good or bad way to deal with this.


	44. Though I have to travel far, remember me

Mazrim sipped his bergamot tea in the highest room of his palace as he observed the procession gathering in the main courtyard. He could watch them at leisure, but they wouldn’t be able to see him. He could even hear them, thanks to the eavesdropping weave he’d set in place. This useful weave didn't come from the Forsaken; it had been invented by one of the Dedicated who was trying to spy on Mazrim's private lessons. Mazrim had banned its use right away, but it did come in handy.

Elayne Trakand sat proudly atop her pure-breed horse, her red-gold hair reflecting the early morning sunlight. She was accompanied by the tall blonde woman whom Mazrim had noticed when he’d visited Caemlyn the previous day, the one who’d attempted to burn a hole through him with her piercing gaze as he’d watched Trakand undress. She was Captain-General of the Guard, according to his sources, but Mazrim suspected there was more to her relationship with Trakand than that. Around them were a dozen members of the Queen’s Guard.

No Aes Sedai, except for the snooty wannabe Queen. That was a good thing, given the circumstances.

Mazrim was still irritated – no, he was angry, furious, even – about Ablar’s foolish scheme. What had the man been thinking, bonding the witches he was ordered to capture?

_Well_ , Mazrim amended bitterly, _the answer to that question is quite obvious_. Ablar had seen an opportunity and he’d seized it. A chance to bolster his numbers – there were already rumours of him bedding one of his pet Aes Sedai. It was clever, Mazrim admitted grudgingly. He would never have thought of that himself. Then again, Mazrim could never trust the witches, not after what they’d almost done to him. He could not fathom how Ablar could look so poised after bonding a member of the Red, of all Ajahs. Besides, a bonded Aes Sedai could be as much trouble as a loose one.

Trakand was outraged that Mazrim hadn’t deigned to greet them himself. He’d sent Coteren instead – a risky choice, given the Asha’man’s quick temper and lack of manners. But Trakand would know Mazrim had sent him on purpose. It would only infuriate her further, but at this point Mazrim didn’t care. Vermin, were they? Well, she would know the full extent of it, and no better person to demonstrate than Coteren. The best part about this was that he was killing two birds with one stone; Coteren had been caught bullying several Soldiers, who had joined Ablar’s side as a result. This was his punishment. The Asha’man would have to act polite and gracious for an hour at least. It went against the man’s nature. It might possibly kill him. It wouldn’t be a great loss, but Mazrim couldn’t spare even him, now that Ablar had all but started recruiting men on his end of the chasm he was creating at the Black Tower. If they didn’t watch it, Mazrim reflected, they would end up in a situation not unlike that of the White Tower. Mazrim really couldn’t afford that.

Access to his palace was strictly forbidden, of course, no matter how much the potential Queen-to-be might insist. He already had the captive Aes Sedai to worry about. He didn’t need the girl to pry further in his private affairs.

The Turning process was taking longer to put in place than Mazrim had assumed. It was no simple trick. Ideally, Mazrim would require female channelers to assist the Myrdraal. He had hoped to make use of the Aes Sedai – they would be easy to Turn, with all the male channelers at his disposal – but Ablar had ruined that ploy effectively. Mazrim was increasingly certain that the best course of action would be to send the blasted man away. He would have to be careful, however. He would need a good reason to get rid of him, so Ablar and his men didn’t get suspicious. Hopefully an opportunity would present itself, and the sooner the better.

Trakand’s cheeks burned in obvious anger when Coteren announced that Mazrim wouldn’t be joining them. She glared at the palace as though she could summon him with her mind. How easy it was to provoke her. It had been the same during their meeting the previous day. She’d clearly had a hard time reining in her temper, to Mazrim’s smug realisation. Idly, he wondered if she knew he’d been lying about the number of female channelers in the room. He knew about the Sea Folk, of course. The Forsaken occasionally shared useful scraps of information, when they were in a good mood. The three women must have been linked besides, but that hadn’t overly worried him. A circle, although more powerful in strength than a single channeler, meant only one person could weave, the one holding the circle. Against multiple opponents, it wasn’t exactly an advantage.

The girl very obviously thought of herself as the rightful Queen. In her mind, the throne was already hers. That was without counting on her rivals – some of those were Darkfriends, according to Moridin. The Forsaken had made an appearance a few days ago, for no apparent reason. The youthful-looking man had assured Mazrim that he would send as many female Dreadlords as he could spare, although he hadn’t said when. He hadn’t mentioned Neya or Demandred. Mazrim often wondered if the two Forsaken were working together or if both were truly unaware of the other’s meddling at the Black Tower. It seemed unlikely, but they never mentioned each other. And since Demandred had been the one to take Neya away, it would make more sense that he be the one to provide the resources needed for the Turning, but that had been Moridin alone, as far as Mazrim could tell.

The Forsaken, it seemed, played their own games, and the plots and subplots were as intricate as _Daes Dae’mar_.

Trakand had made several threats during their… negotiations. She could cut off supplies arriving from Caemlyn. Mazrim had laughed that off. True, with the dreadful weather, gateways were necessary to acquire anything, and he could hardly spare men to go shopping for groceries. But the girl forgot that her rule, practically speaking, didn’t extend far beyond the city’s borders, especially the way things stood, with the succession so uncertain.

She’d threatened to send Aes Sedai to the Black Tower. Mazrim hadn’t dared laugh aloud, but they’d already proved that a handful of witches were no match for them. He didn’t think the girl realised exactly how many men he had at his disposal – well, she would have a better idea of their numbers soon enough. Short of sending the entire White Tower against the Black – and considering the witches’ current situation, Mazrim couldn’t see that happening – his Asha’man would vastly outnumber any party of Aes Sedai they sent their way.

And then those Aiel savages had interrupted their conversation. They had ignored Mazrim entirely, as though he posed no threat at all. That last part had been… confusing, at first. Not in a million years could he have anticipated it, or anything quite like it. He still had no idea what had happened, what had been the point of such an absurd behaviour. When Mazrim had realised what Trakand had been about to do, however, it had been… well, hilarious. That Elayne Trakand, future Queen of Andor, might unclothe herself in front of so many strangers, at the order of an Aiel primitive… It was unbelievably demeaning.

He had watched with interest, of course, even though he’d had the presence of mind to order his men to turn. Catching your enemy in an embarrassing position – and if that was not an embarrassing position, Mazrim didn’t know what was – gave you an advantage over them.

Mazrim didn’t care much for blond or red-haired women, but Trakand was well-made, no doubt about it. Still, she was not his type – and not only because of the colour of her hair. She was arrogant, and she obviously thought highly of herself. She was a spoiled, ungrateful child, used to having people fulfil her every whim – a royal brat if there ever was one.

More importantly, she was not Neya.

Neya was still alive. Recently, Mazrim had been wondering where she was, exactly – not the Aiel Waste, he’d decided. Shara seemed much more likely. Why Demandred would send her there, and what _he_ was doing there, for that matter, was still undetermined. Mazrim knew very little about Shara – about as much as anyone else. The stories that made it into the Westlands had to be wild exaggerations at best. Beasts the size of houses, sex slaves, bloodthirsty pirates, mines of gold and silver… It was pure fantasy. So why had Demandred established himself there?

Mazrim put the question aside. It hardly mattered. The one who should be worried was Rand al’Thor. Demandred, if unchecked, could turn out to be the most deadly of the Forsaken. He was a strategist, a tactician. If he was gathering an army in Shara… The blow would be devastating, because who would expect it?

Neya had been sending emotions through the bond almost daily – hope, reassurance, sadness, worry. She must have concentrated hard to make certain Mazrim felt them, even so vaguely. This was what had comforted him that she was _not_ a Darkfriend. Why would she bother to connect with him, weeks after she’d been taken, especially now that Mazrim was finally moving on with the Turning phase?

It meant that she was truly in danger, which was hardly a comforting thought, and yet Mazrim felt relieved. She had not been deceiving him. She really cared about him, even now.

Initially, after he’d decided that Neya wasn’t a Darkfriend, Mazrim had been afraid that she would despise him, hate him. After all, _he_ was a Darkfriend. He had deceived her. He had let her down, he had crushed all of her expectations regarding the man she thought he was. Demandred must have told her who he truly was; of that Mazrim had no doubt. And still she sought him out almost daily, clearly worried about him.

On his side of the bond, Mazrim had deemed it prudent to mask his own emotions. With everything that was going on… Neya would be disappointed if she ever found out what he was planning to do, he knew. Besides, if she’d been forced to reveal their connection to Demandred, she had thus revealed Mazrim’s greatest weakness – which was, simply put, that he was weak.

He could have severed the bond. Perhaps he should have. But he still couldn’t bring himself to do it. At least he knew that Neya was alive, and she knew he was, too.

There was nothing he could do, anyway, no matter how much thought he put into resolving the situation. He barely slept, these days, and instead spent hours in his armchair drinking wine and considering his options. But it was helpless. If he tried to rescue Neya, assuming they both survived the attempt, what would they do next? Hide? There was no hiding from the Forsaken. Demandred was proof that they were truly everywhere, and they had spies in the most unlikely places. Mazrim had even briefly considered warning al’Thor, revealing everything, hoping the Dragon Reborn would rescue Neya himself – and deal with Demandred in the process, if he could. He’d quickly rejected the idea, however. For one thing, Mazrim wasn’t sure where al’Thor was at the moment, despite his sources. For another… Well, the boy wasn’t exactly sane. There was no telling how he would react. He might execute Mazrim on the spot. It was too chancy.

Mazrim had often wondered what Neya received on her end of the bond. Her emotions were always clear, strong, and neatly categorised, but she’d once claimed that Mazrim’s mind was difficult to read. Admittedly, most of the time, Mazrim himself didn’t know how he felt. And it seemed to be getting worse.

But that was something else he couldn’t afford to dwell on. If he was doomed to go mad, despite the Dark One’s supposed protection, so be it. Perhaps it would make the weeks to come more bearable.

* * *

Karys observed the newcomers with unfeigned curiosity and keen interest. The lady who rode at the head of the procession was beautiful, like a princess in a fairy tale. The woman at her side looked like Birgitte Silverbow, one of the Heroes of the Horn of Valere. She even carried a bow. Karys had rarely met a woman carrying a weapon, except for Neya. She wondered if the lady’s guard was a good shot. Perhaps she could teach Karys how to use the bow, if they intended to stay at the Black Tower.

The golden-haired lady didn’t look happy. She was glaring in the direction of Mazrim’s palace as though he’d offended her, but Karys hadn’t seen Mazrim this morning. He rarely wandered outside, these days, not even to make announcements. He usually left that task to Atal – the Asha’man was a charismatic speaker.

Karys had been angry at first, after Mazrim had spurned them, a feeling exacerbated by how devastated she was that Neya had left them. Now that she’d cooled off, however, she realised that Mazrim’s words made no sense. They were contradictory. Karys had overheard him talk with Neya just a few days before she disappeared. They had been discussing having Ila and Karys move into Mazrim’s palace, where they’d each have their own room, if they wanted. Neya had sounded thrilled, but the suggestion had come from Mazrim, not her. Why would he suggest that if he didn’t want them around? Had it been just to please Neya? Karys couldn’t be certain, but she’d decided that it was unlikely.

She was still angry, or at least frustrated, but mainly because she didn’t understand what was happening at the Tower. Something _was_ happening; that much was certain. Everyone was tense – more than usual, anyway. There were brawls almost daily, and some men used the Power on occasion, which was strictly forbidden and harshly punished. Mazrim had given several warnings and came up with punishments each more severe than the last, but nothing seemed to work. Something was very wrong.

Karys just couldn’t understand why Neya hadn’t sent any messages. She might be too busy to visit, but couldn’t she write a few words, to let them know she was fine, that she would come back as soon as possible? Karys knew that Neya couldn’t make gateways – the weave that allowed channelers to travel wherever they wished – but surely the Lord Dragon had channelers at his disposal who could. It made no sense.

Androl and the others still welcomed the girls for meals, but it wasn’t the same as before, not at all. They were obviously uneasy, and more occupied than ever – Mazrim seemed to think that the busier the men were, the less likely they were to cause trouble. They tolerated Ila and Karys, to an extent, but they often spoke in hushed tones so they wouldn’t be overheard. They didn’t tuck them to sleep at night. They didn’t sleep in their bed when Ila had one of her nightmares. They didn’t braid Ila’s hair or make sure she brushed her teeth or eat her vegetables.

Neya had done all these things. Neya had been almost constantly with them, and when she’d had to leave the Tower to run errands, she’d always made sure someone would look after them until she came back. Most often she’d left that task to Atal, or Damer, back before he was recalled by the Dragon Reborn. After they’d lost their father at Dumai’s Wells, Karys and her sister had spent a lot of time at Mazrim’s palace, where there was always at least one Asha’man to keep watch over them.

The other women of the Black Tower – the Asha’man’s wives – were as agitated as their partners. They were overprotective of their own children, but Karys and Ilawen were just about the only orphans at the Tower and no one seemed to want to take them in – Karys sometimes wondered if it was because of their connection to Mazrim. Children who had lost their father usually had a mother to take over, and they often left the Tower. In any case, none of them were Neya, and Karys would settle for no less.

In the end, Karys was alone to watch over her sister. She was used to that, of course. She’d been looking after her sister her entire life. Their mother had died giving birth to Ila, and her father had had to work. Their grandmother was impotent and her mind wandered too often. It was her aunt, Arkadia, who had told her that she must look after her sister, because no one else would. The woman had moved away when Ila was just a baby, after marrying a Kandori trader. After that, Karys had been the one to change her sister’s diapers, to feed her, to sing lullabies when Ila cried at night. She was the one who’d made sure Ila didn’t play too long in the sun after she’d learnt to walk. That she looked both ways before crossing the road. That she stayed away from any potential threat, really, and that was no easy feat here at the Tower, especially nowadays. Neya had lightened that burden a great deal. Mazrim, too, whether he realised it or not. And now Neya was gone and Mazrim wanted nothing to do with them.

On top of that, Ilawen was in a terrible mood, these days. She was sullen and rebellious, which was completely unlike her. She hadn’t been that bad even after their father had died. Karys didn’t know what to do to cheer her up. Usually, and since Neya was unavailable, being around Logain did the trick, because Ila was convinced he was some sort of fairy tale prince, but the Asha’man was making himself scarce these days. He was too busy with his new… lady friends.

There were new women at the Tower, women Karys had never met before. Their faces were strange. Ila had tried to approach one, but the woman had hurried along and pretended not to hear her. Nobody had deigned to explain to Karys who the women were, although they all seemed to know – and to disapprove of their presence at the Tower. Karys had decided that she would figure it out on her own. In fact, she was almost certain that the women were Aes Sedai, but she couldn’t explain their presence at the Black Tower, let alone the guarded looks and wide berths everyone gave them. As far as Karys knew, Aes Sedai were to be respected. They should have been staying at the palace, not in the men’s barracks. That seemed inappropriate. She was sure her grandmother would have agreed.

Karys spotted Atal standing guard at the main entrance of Mazrim’s palace. He seemed to draw guard duty much more often than any of the other Asha’man, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Karys wondered if he asked for it, or if Mazrim ordered it. Mazrim certainly seemed to rely on him a lot.

She glanced at her sister, but Ilawen appeared lost in thought, another unusual thing for her. She was idly petting one of the numerous dogs and toying with her dragon pin. She didn’t seem to be in the mood to run off and do something dangerous or stupid – or both – so Karys decided to join Atal. He was one of the few Asha’man who didn’t appear preoccupied by whatever was going on, and he always took the time to talk to her.

Atal grinned at her genially and ruffled her hair when she approached. She couldn’t help but smile back. He was so beautiful, with his long, golden hair and bright blue eyes. She often argued with Ila that he was much prettier than Logain, but her sister was completely smitten. Logain was far from hideous, true, but there was a darkness in him. He looked angry, bitter. These days he didn’t even bother to conceal it underneath a fake smile. Atal, on the other hand, always looked cheerful. He radiated confidence and good humour, which made Karys feel more at ease than Logain’s gloomy aura.

She asked Atal who the visiting lady was and he explained that she was the Queen of Andor – or, at least, she was supposed to be. A lot of people seemed to disagree with that, although Elayne Trakand was the late Queen’s daughter. Atal didn’t know who the archer was, but he agreed that she looked like the hero of legend. She had probably been inspired by the tales of Birgitte Silverbow, that was all.

His smile faded when Karys asked if he’d heard anything from Neya, or perhaps from the Dragon Reborn – after all, he was the one who’d summoned Neya away from the Tower. “Sorry,” Atal said for what seemed like the hundredth time. Karys asked about Neya whenever they talked. “Nothing yet. I’m sure she’s fine, though.”

He always said that, and Karys always believed him, but the answer wasn’t entirely satisfactory. Karys needed more than words of reassurance; she needed facts, she needed proof. She had to know whether she should prepare herself to raise her sister on her own – because if that were the case, it might be best for them to leave the Tower, before everything fell apart.


	45. Some of us still dream of living

Kal was still considering whether he should pretend to be sick to avoid his chores when the new bloke finally arrived. Kal was skilled in many areas, but teaching was clearly not one of them, and Neya seemed to take a perverse pleasure in appointing him to dispense lessons to the younger kids. She claimed it would teach him to be more patient.

Well, Kal didn't want to be patient. He had spent his entire existence working for the benefit of others, and he was determined to enjoy what life he had left. He could just leave, of course – Bao claimed they were free to go at any time – but he couldn't just leave Abrazo behind, and taking him along would be a hindrance at best. In short, he was stuck here. For the time being, anyway.

The newcomer was not much taller than Kalayaan himself, although much more muscular, which was quite obvious since he was shirtless. His skin was a lighter shade than Kal’s, but his hair was surprisingly pale. He wore his beard in two thick, knotted braids hanging down from either cheek. He appeared to be in his thirties.

The tattoos on his forearms marked him as a first-generation slave. People who were born into slavery didn’t get these tattoos; they weren’t considered a flight risk or potential troublemakers. The tattoos on his back indicated that he’d been owned by officials of the government. If he’d been the property of a noble, his chest would have been tattooed instead.

"You're Torn?" Kal asked him in a bored voice.

The older man grinned widely. "Aye. I was told to find Neya?"

Kal nodded tersely. "I'll take you to her."

They made their way through the tiny Ayyad encampment, which was part of the much larger camp the Freed had set across the valley. More former slaves still arrived every day, from all over the land. News did not travel fast in these parts. Likely, some areas weren't yet aware of the abrupt disappearance of the Sh'botay, or even of the Revolt, although it had taken place months ago. Already, there were thousands of people gathered here, men and women, and not a few children.

"I didn't catch your name, Ayyad," Torn said after a time of walking in silence.

"Kalayaan," he muttered in reply. He hated small talk and people who talked just to make conversation.

"Like the main character in that children's book,  _Wild Tales_?"

Now that was unusual. Few of the Freed could read, except for those whose occupation had required it. "Yes, that's where I got the inspiration," he said. "Have you read it?"

"Yeah, I like to read when I can, even though I'm a slow reader," Torn admitted.

Slow or not, that was better than most people Kal knew. "I've got a few books. We could trade, if you have any."

"That'd be nice. I've been re-reading the same ones for the past fifteen years or so. It'd be good to have some new material. Books ain't easy to come by," he said sadly.

"Tell me about it," Kal concurred with a sigh. The things he'd had to do for these books… But they had been worth the trouble. Books allowed him to escape his shitty life whenever he wanted – or needed – to. "How's it going with the Freed?" he found himself asking. "Are they settling in?"

Torn snorted. "It's a flaming mess, let me tell you. Most of them can't adjust."

"Adjust to what?" Kal asked with a frown.

"Freedom," Torn explained. "The ones who were enslaved later in life have no problem whatsoever. Some of those have departed already, gone the moment Bao told them they were free to go. But the others, those who were born into slavery…" He trailed off with a shrug. "They've never known anything else. It's almost as though they’re afraid to be their own person, or think for themselves. Most of them still ask permission to even go to the bloody latrines," he went on with a grimace.

"Do you think Bao made a mistake in releasing them?" Kal asked.

"Not at all, not at all," Torn said. "It will take time, that's for sure, but it was the right thing to do. We're centuries behind, compared to the bloody Westlands," he stated. "Bao will propel us forward in no time, though, see if he don't."

Just when he'd started to like the other man, he proved to be just another sheep mindlessly praising the mighty Bao. What was wrong with these people? No  _ulikar_  should have the right to rule in Shara, and it was ludicrous to believe Bao could be the Wyld. Was Kal the only one who saw him for what he truly was? Bao was just another petty tyrant, a power-hungry, ambitious, greedy man intent on preying on the weak and ignorant. He was manipulative, deceiving, and he thought too highly of himself. Of course, considering the way everyone behaved around him, it was no wonder Bao believed himself Kongsidi made flesh. At least Neya seemed aware of the problem. He wasn't sure what they could do about it, however. Even if they managed to convince other people that he had to be removed, Bao was a dangerous man, and that was without even taking his channeling abilities into account.

Torn appeared to notice his sudden silence. "You don't like him much, do you?" Kal let out a noncommittal grunt. "He's not all that bad, really, although not what I expected, I'll admit. You'd think the saviour of our people would  _be_  one of our people, wouldn't you?" He chuckled quietly. "And he's so flaming serious."

"I don't trust people who have no sense of humour," Kal muttered. One of his caretakers had been such a man. Kal still had nightmares involving him.

"Nor should you," Torn said wisely. "But I think he has one, actually. He seems able to comprehend jokes, in any case. He just doesn't react to them. Well, he must have a lot on his mind, what with being the flaming Wyld and dealing with bloody Galbrait, among other things."

"He's not the Wyld yet," Kal pointed out. He was convinced that the Revolt had been an accident, a chance happening. Bao had been at the right place, at the right moment. It didn't mean anything. No  _ulikar_  could hope to accomplish the rest of the Prophecies. Bao would never come out of the Hearttomb alive. No one ever did.

"True. He will be, though. Soon enough." He laughed when he saw Kal's expression. "I used to think like you. But Shendla… Do you know her?" Kal nodded. He had met her on a few occasions, although they had never actually talked. "She's a friend of mine. We've known each other a long time. I think she's right about him. He really is the one."

As far as Kal could tell, Shendla was enthralled by Bao and couldn't be trusted. He wasn't about to say that to Torn, however, not if she was his 'friend', so he decided to change the subject. "You don't behave like a slave," Kal told him.

"Well, I wasn’t born one.” He showed off his tattooed arms for emphasis. “I was a mercenary, working along the coast." 'The coast' usually referred to the lands in the Far East, near the Morenal Ocean. The people who lived there were part of Shara in name only; Kal doubted any of them knew the name of the Sh'botay. At least, that was what Mintel said. The  _abrishi_  seemed to have travelled a lot in his younger years. In any case, there was always fighting in those parts, and therefore plenty of work to be found for mercenaries. "I was enslaved four years ago, by some flaming noble who decided to take an interest in one of the silver mines over there. He brought a whole bloody army with him, the blasted son of a camel. Killed most everyone in our band, then sold the rest of us off to an acquaintance of his in Kigali. Made me work as a flaming porter at the Citadel. Me, a porter!" he said, spitting on the ground. That would explain why he approved of Bao's actions. The Citadel had been the first target of the Revolt.

"Why did Bao send you to us, exactly?" Neya had received a message earlier this morning, but all it said was to expect a former slave named Torn.

"Shendla sent me, actually. She wants me to keep an eye on things. She's… um… intrigued by the girl, the other  _ulikar_ ," he replied carefully.

Why would Shendla send someone to spy on them? They weren't doing anything out of the ordinary. They spent most of their time giving lessons to the younger Ayyad. No one here was involved in matters of politics or anything even remotely interesting. Not for the first time, Kal wondered why Neya was here at all. Bao could have appointed anyone in her stead, any Sharan. Not that she bothered Kal; she was good at what she did, he had to give her that, and she was a fast learner. She was already fluent in their dialect and Mintel was teaching her  _isleh_. But why bring someone from the other side of the world, someone so young and inexperienced? Not to mention that she clearly didn't think much of Bao. It simply didn't make sense. Then again,  _ulikar_  rarely made sense.

They were nearing her tent when Neya came out of it. "Kal! I was looking for you. Aren't you supposed to be with your group?" she asked him with an arched eyebrow.

"I was just on my way there, but then this one arrived," he said, cocking his head toward Torn. "That's the man we were told to expect."

Neya smiled at the former mercenary. "I'm Neya," she introduced herself, thrusting her hand forward in that odd manner she had. Torn looked at it in bewilderment. "Oh, sorry. Habit," Neya explained, letting her hand drop. "Why are you here? The message didn't say."

"I'm just here to help, however I can," he replied smoothly. "Shendla feels that you might be a little overwhelmed, since it's just the three of you to look after the whole bloody lot of them."

Neya frowned at him. "Shendla sent you? Does Bao know about it?"

Torn shrugged. "Probably. I didn't enquire."

Neya studied him a moment longer before she spoke again. "Can you read?" Torn nodded. "Then we'll split them into another group and you can teach them. I assume you can use that sword as well?" she asked, pointing at the large double-edged sword he carried on his back. Torn nodded once more. "Good. I need someone to practice with, and we can start teaching the boys as well," she said with a delighted grin. "I didn't know you were going to stay, however. We'll have to find a tent to accommodate you."

"He can stay in mine," Kal blurted out. What was wrong with him? He treasured the peace and quiet of his tent, and now he was inviting someone to share it with him? Even Abe didn't sleep there! "I mean," he went on quickly, "until we find somewhere else for you to sleep."

Neya snorted. "How generous of you," she said sweetly. "It's just for a day or two," she added with an apologetic smile in Torn's direction.

"I've slept in worse conditions," he assured her.

"I'll take your group," Neya told Kal with a resigned sigh. "Just show him around and help him settle down, will you?" Without waiting for an answer, she stalked away to attend to her lesson.

"Her accent is decidedly odd," Torn pointed out, "but she's doing well. I remember Bao during his first weeks here," he went on with a chuckle. "I could barely make out the bloody words coming out of him."

"You've known him since he first came to Shara?" Kal asked in surprise. "I thought you were at the Citadel."

"Oh no, no. I was a slave only for a few months, thank Kongsidi. Shendla works in the Library, see? It's part of the Citadel. She set me free when she found out I was there. I hadn't seen her in years, but she owed me."

"She bought your freedom?" How could she possibly afford that? Buying a slave's freedom cost even more than the slave himself, because you had to pay extra for the free labour no one would benefit from ever again. Only the wealthiest members of the affluent classes could afford that, as far as Kal knew, and even when they could afford it, they rarely bothered.

"She made some kind of deal with my owner," Torn explained. "At least, that's what she told me when I asked. The man's rotting corpse was found a few days later in the canal," he went on conversationally.  _So_ , Kal thought,  _the woman is more dangerous than she appears_.  _No wonder Bao keeps her around._  "Anyway, we were both going to the Capital and we met Mintel and Bao along the way. He had just arrived, though I'm not sure how he got here exactly. He said he'd been traded near the western border, but he doesn't look like a man who'd let himself be taken, even by flaming Aiel. Then again, why would anyone pretend to be a bloody slave?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't know, but he's clearly up to something, and I'm not talking about the Prophecies. There's something off about the man, I'm telling you," Kal said. "I don't like it."

Torn laughed it off. "Don't overthink it, man. He's an  _ulikar_  and a flaming channeler. He's not bloody likely to be sane." He stopped abruptly, glancing at Kal. "Ahem… Sorry about that." Kal shrugged unconcernedly. He knew the fate that awaited him. He had made his peace with it a long time ago. Torn went on quickly, in an attempt to shoo the awkward moment. "Anyway, what's the worst thing that could happen?"


	46. I am burdened with glorious purpose

Moridin dismissed Cyndane with a perfunctory flick of his wrist. He would have no further use of her this day. She was only useful as a display of his authority to the other Chosen – Moridin could have announced himself the news of al’Thor’s plan, but a reminder of his position was occasionally necessary. Some of his subordinates appeared eager to be rid of him – as was expected of them. Ambition was a necessary trait to survive in their... line of work.

There was something different about Demandred, Moridin had noticed. His time in Shara had changed him, and it became more apparent each time they met. He was still his sombre, imperious self, but he seemed oddly protective of the primitive Eastlanders he was manipulating. Moridin had only the vaguest idea what Demandred’s plan was. He hadn’t really bothered to look into it, and he had very few spies in Shara – all of them hastily acquired once he’d realised where his old friend had established himself.

Moridin was not worried, however. If any of the Chosen did manage to come up with something useful for the battle to come, it was Demandred.

He did not understand why Demandred had suddenly removed Neya from the Black Tower, but it appeared to be a good move. It was about time Taim began creating new Dreadlords – willing or unwilling ones, it mattered little to Moridin. The Saldaean was well-established in his position of leadership, and Moridin didn’t think that Logain Ablar would prove to be an obstacle in the long term. He was merely a minor disturbance.

They could use a few more Chosen as well as Dreadlords, but such power was not granted lightly by the Great Lord of the Dark. No one of this barbaric Age had yet been Chosen – no one truly deserved it. And yet they needed to bolster their ranks. Taim seemed an obvious candidate, despite his unwillingness to serve the Shadow. Still, the man had proved weak before; he was at his weakest now. He wouldn’t be able to resist the offer, not now that Neya’s life hung in the balance, and the man was intelligent enough to know that Moridin had other ways to persuade him. He was loath to threaten innocent children, but they were running out of time. He would do what had to be done – or rather, have someone else do it. Being _Nae’blis_ did have its perks.

Moridin knew that Demandred kept a close watch on Neya, but also that the girl was free to come and go as she pleased. She’d apparently been appointed as caretaker to the creatures that passed for male channelers in Shara. Moridin couldn’t figure out why. Neya had experience with male channelers, yes, but she knew nothing of the land and its people – or channeling itself, for that matter. She had very little use that Moridin could see, in truth, beyond her Healing abilities. Yet there was always a good reason behind Demandred’s actions, although it was rarely obvious to anyone but him. He was as secretive now as he’d ever been.

Demandred didn’t know as much about Neya as he believed, of that Moridin was certain – he had been the Chosen’s primary source of information, after all. Demandred knew that Neya had been captured by Moridin’s previous incarnation, but not the extent of it, not quite. He knew about her brief time in Lanfear’s dungeons. He also knew about Asmodean, about her and Taim – but every Chosen knew of that. They all had spies among the Aiel and at the Black Tower.

Moridin had not forbidden harm to come to Neya, or given orders for her life or death; in fact, he had made no mention of her at all. Demandred was the only one who’d connected the dots and realised she might be more important than she appeared – she had already survived two of the Chosen, and she had tamed Asmodean and kept him exactly where al’Thor wanted him: in the Light. Her relationship with Taim, that the others had dismissed as inconsequential, had retained all of Demandred’s attention. Moridin wondered if the man suspected the truth, and if that was why he had decided to keep the girl for himself.

Then again, Moridin had learned that where Neya was concerned… Well, she was what she was. It was difficult to determine why anything happened to her – or around her.

He missed her a bit, he had to admit. She’d been part of his life for quite a while – a fleck of time in his absurdly long existence, yes, but she had saved his life twice, and that had left a mark, though not a physical one. Love might be a strong word for what he felt toward her; he was simply fond of her. He’d hate for anything to happen to her, although he suspected she would be fine, at least until the Last Battle. She had a role to play, a significant one, and Moridin was curious to know what it was. He had been waiting to find out for years.

* * *

Neya couldn't feel anything coming from Mazrim through the bond. She didn’t think it was the distance; she was afraid that he was masking his emotions from her on purpose. That didn’t bode well, although she had to consider the fact that he hadn’t severed their bond. It wasn’t any use to him, so it had to mean something.

She tried to send him positive emotions, but there was no telling if he felt them or not. She did that every day in the beginning, but after a while it felt more and more pointless. He never returned anything. She gave up after a few weeks. She was on her own; he wouldn't come to her rescue. Nobody would. Nobody ever did.

Bao visited only occasionally, and he never stayed more than a few minutes, which suited her just fine. Everything was working out incredibly well, considering what they’d begun with. Most of the Ayyad progressed slowly but steadily, and a handful proved to be above average. Between sword practice and lessons and chores, time flew by.

Three weeks after his first visit, Bao made another appearance. He seemed irate, an unusual display of emotion from him, and he was alone, this time. He marched right up to Neya and commanded her to follow him in her tent. "What do you know of al'Thor's plan to cleanse  _saidin_?" he demanded before Neya was fully settled on the ground.

She stared up at him in confusion. "Cleanse  _saidin_? Of the… taint?” Bao nodded tersely. What was he going on about? “He never said anything about that. Is it even possible?" she asked sceptically.

Bao scowled darkly. "It should not be. He intends to use the Choedan Kal, with the assistance of a female channeler."

He had lost her completely. Choedan Kal? What in the Pit of Doom was that? "And what exactly am I supposed to do about it?" Neya asked faintly.

"Do you know who might assist him in this senseless task?"

"No, I don't. How would I know?” She hadn’t heard from Rand in weeks. “Bao, he never told me anything about his plans or intentions. Except for the Black Tower, obviously,” she amended. “Besides, I have no idea what a… Choedan Kal is," she added.

Bao fixed his angry eyes on her for a long time, his mouth set in a tight line. She did her best not to shudder or drop her gaze and almost succeeded. "Darkness within!" she heard him mutter under his breath.

The words were out before she could swallow them back. "Tsk, language." She did swallow when he sent a murderous glare in her direction. "If you don't think it's possible, why are you so worried about it?" she went on hurriedly.

"The Choedan Kal are two _sa'angreal_ , the most powerful ones ever created. Using them to attempt this folly would require amounts of Power that have never been wielded in living memory. The Choedan Kal were never tested; it was unanimously agreed that they were too dangerous. Foolish boy!" he said scornfully. "He could break the world before the Last Battle even begins!" Bao stood up angrily and started pacing in the tiny space of her tent.

Well, that would be a bother, Neya had to admit, but more pressingly, she had to calm Bao down before he did anything rash to ease his rage. She didn’t want to find out exactly how deathly he could be. "Can I help in any way?" Probably not, but it cost nothing to ask.

"Little girl," he said condescendingly, "you can barely channel to start a fire. What do you think you could possibly do about this?"

"Well, you're the one who came to me with this," she replied crossly. "And whatever happened to calling people by their first names?" Being irritated was no excuse to be rude, her mother always said.

Bao threw her another baleful glare. "Watch your tone."

Neya wondered if he’d embraced the Source, or if he was merely radiating violence and danger. "Why do I have to watch what I say?” she complained, oblivious to Bao’s dreadful mood. “Torn says worse things to you all the time and you never scold him." It was hardly fair. The man was even allowed to curse in Bao’s presence!

"Torn has pledged his life to me," Bao informed her flatly.

"You want me to pledge myself to you? I would, you know. You're not as bad as all that. If your intent truly was to save the world, as they all seem to believe, I really would do it. But I don't think that's what you have in mind, is it?" she said dryly.

"I will do better than that," he replied softly. His anger was fading slowly; he had stopped pacing. "I will cleanse this pathetic world, I will purge it with fire, and from its ashes I will build a new world. A new Age will dawn, one that will make the Age of Legends pale in comparison." His dark eyes shone with fervour.

_Oh, so he_ is _mad_ , Neya thought with mounting horror. And he had seemed so lucid – at least compared to Ishamael and Lanfear. She cleared her throat. "Is that so?" she said guardedly.

"It was promised," he murmured.

"By the… Great Lord," she went on dubiously.

"You must not force yourself to use that term, if you do not wish to. It matters little."

“So the Dark One promised you that you could rule this fancy new world if you destroyed Rand and ensured that the Shadow won the Last Battle," she summed up. "But how can you believe anything it says? It is called the Father of Lies for a reason." Everyone always referred to the Dark One as if it were male, but she didn't think the Dark One was supposed to have a gender. It was an entity, not a person.

Bao was silent for a long time, eyeing her thoughtfully. "If the Great Lord should renege, I shall  _take_  what was promised. What is rightfully mine," he said fiercely.

"That's not what I meant," Neya explained patiently, although she wasn’t certain why she was even bothering to reason with him. But she had started the debate now, and she would see this through. "Bao, I just don't think there will  _be_  a world to rule if the Dark One has its way. Why would it allow you, or anyone else, for that matter, to live once it has obtained what it wants? It is the Lord of the Grave, the Destroyer of Light. Why should it allow you to create a bright new world, when all it wants is death and darkness and chaos? How can any of you be so naive as to actually believe anything it says?" she asked him earnestly. "Has the promise of power and immortality rendered you all stupid?" It was so obvious to her; she couldn't understand how Bao did not see it – sane or not, he was an intelligent man.

Neya realised she was far off-limits – Light, had she really just called him stupid? – but she didn't care. It was too late, in any case.

Bao had crouched in front of her when she began ranting. His anger seemed to have drained out of him. His face was absolutely still; a skull would have been more expressive. "You have some valid points," he said dispassionately as he rose to his feet and exited the tent.

Neya stared after him with her mouth hanging open.


	47. I know it sounds sordid, but you'll be rewarded

Atal turned his horse around and headed back to the Tower, leaving Logain and his Aes Sedai behind.

He shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the weather – Taim had taught them how to ignore heat and cold a long time ago. Bonding and bedding Aes Sedai… What madness was this? The taint must have addled Logain’s brains. Or perhaps it was the Healing; after all, they had no way of knowing what that girl had done, exactly, when she’d restored Logain’s ability to channel. She may have restored him to his full strength, but it looked like she’d severely damaged his common sense in the process – assuming the man had had any to begin with. Neya used to joke that most men were born without much of it.

It was fairly disturbing that Logain would share something so intimate with an Aes Sedai – their natural enemies. It was almost… obscene. Atal wondered if the Brown sister was doing it willingly, or if Logain was forcing himself on her. She didn’t look like she minded, admittedly. Most likely, the witch was trying to lull Logain into trusting her, to lower his suspicion and defences. Atal would be certain to mention this to Taim. The Aes Sedai had to obey their bonded male counterparts, but every one of those belonged to Logain’s… side.

Yes, there was such a thing now. Two factions, and an increasingly vast rift between them. And if Logain’s men and their Aes Sedai decided to rebel against the M’Hael… Well, there was no telling how that would end. With many casualties, certainly. Taim’s Asha’man were more experienced, thanks to their private lessons, and yet there was strength in numbers, and Logain had gathered quite a crowd around him. All in all, it was probably a good thing that the man left the Tower to recruit. Good riddance. With any luck, he would be killed out there, and the M’Hael could begin to mend the Black Tower – they didn’t want to end up like the Aes Sedai, did they?

Logain’s willingness to go on recruiting missions only confirmed Atal’s suspicion regarding the man’s mental instability. Who would seek that duty on purpose? Atal had had to oversee a recruiting party, a few weeks ago, but it had been punishment for brawling with some witless Dedicated who was making fun of him for being with Trygg. Atal wasn’t particularly secretive about their relationship, to Trygg’s annoyance. He’d warned him they’d be in trouble, if Atal wasn’t more careful. Atal didn’t care. This was the one place in the world where he could be himself, all aspects of himself. If the others didn’t like it, it was their problem. He wasn’t going to allow lesser men to dictate how he was supposed to behave.

Anyway. Logain was an odd bird. Atal didn’t particularly like him; he was always congenial towards his cronies and pet Aes Sedai, but barely refrained from being rude when he addressed Atal. What had he ever done to the man? Moreover, Logain had refused to join the M’Hael's private classes, which was incomprehensible. The things Atal had learned… Of course, he knew by now what it all meant. Taim was grooming them for the Last Battle, obviously, but now Atal suspected that they wouldn’t be fighting for the Dragon Reborn. He believed some of the other Asha’man knew, too, but no one ever talked about it. Atal didn’t dare voice his suspicions aloud until Taim either confirmed or disconfirmed them.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Once upon a time, before he joined the Tower, before he realised he could channel, he would have fought for the Light, no matter what, until the bitter end. But just to think of the knowledge Taim had access to, because of his presumed connection to the Forsaken… He held such power.

Atal could be Taim’s first lieutenant – he knew he was one of the man’s favourite pupils, no matter how little the man showed it. They could rule the world together – under the Forsaken, of course. Trygg and Atal could be together; no one would make fun of them. No one would dare.

Atal wondered, not for the first time, how things would have turned out if Neya hadn't vanished. He wasn’t sure he believed Taim when he said the Dragon Reborn had her running errands – it had been a month since she’d left the Tower. Surely she should have been back by now, or she would have at least sent messages. He was mildly worried about her, but he wasn’t about to question Taim openly. Wherever she was, whatever had happened to her, the man must have his reasons to be so obscure about it. Perhaps the Forsaken had taken her – perhaps they wanted her out of the way, so Taim would focus on the task at hand. Well, he certainly was. There were more men than ever in his classes, and some of them had been Soldiers just a few weeks ago.

Taim had changed since Neya had left. He was… colder. He often appeared distracted. Discipline was even stricter than before, if that was possible. Atal had been lucky that the brawl had taken place before all this, or he might have ended up executed.

Taim drank too much and ate too little, and he sometimes muttered to himself, things Atal had noticed because he always asked for guard duty at the palace. He was the only one suited for the task; too often he found his colleagues asleep at the door, as if they didn’t take the assignment seriously.

And M’Hael had abandoned the girls, Karys and Ilawen. That was the one thing for which Atal reproached him. He could understand that the man had more pressing matters to attend to, but Taim hadn’t even bothered to make sure someone would take them in and look after them.

Atal hadn’t realised that until two weeks ago. Karys had reluctantly admitted it to him when the Andoran Queen was visiting. Atal had suggested that very day that they move into one of the Asha’man’s barracks. His own was next to Trygg’s, and the one on the other side was vacant. It would be easier to keep an eye on them, and it had lit up the girl’s face like a weave of pure Fire. She’d appeared relieved, and Ilawen had let out an ear-piercing shriek of joy. Trygg had been surprisingly amenable regarding this new development, and it was working out quite well so far, despite the disapproving looks some of the wives and other men gave them – Taim’s men and Logain’s alike, although the M’Hael himself had made no mention of it. Logain didn’t appear to care one way or the other.

The M’Hael had his flaws, but Atal trusted him without question. He had a lot on his mind, but he knew what he was doing. And Atal didn’t doubt that Taim would share in his power when he arose to the rank of Dreadlord – or higher. He would make sure his loyal followers were properly rewarded.

* * *

Logain stared after the diminishing silhouette in the distance, slowly taking back control over his emotions. He hadn’t meant to alarm Gabrelle through the bond, but the young Asha’man made him uneasy – like most of Taim’s men, in fact. But Mishraile was different. He was Taim’s man through and through, without a doubt, but he wasn’t a bullying idiot, like Coteren, or a petty tyrant like Manel Rochaid. The boy was smarter than he let on. Logain was unsure about Mishraile’s motivations for following the M’Hael.

With a slight shake of his head, he dismissed the young Asha'man from his mind to focus on the news he'd brought. Logain had thought this through. He might have the numbers on his side, but he had no idea what weaves the others might throw at them. If, as he suspected, Taim and his minions had the Forsaken on their side... It would be a bloodbath, regardless of the issue, and Logain wanted to avoid that at all costs – there were the women and children to consider, and many of the men were really just boys. Logain had therefore decided to seek out the Dragon Reborn and demand that the man intervene. Taim had to be apprehended. He wouldn’t go as far as to say the Saldaean ought to be gentled – he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy; in Logain’s opinion, straightforward execution was an enviable fate compared to losing _saidin_ – but he had to be sent away from the Tower, that much was certain. Before he could do irreparable damage.

And if he did find the Lord Dragon, Logain would take the opportunity to ask where in the Pit of Doom Neya was, and why she hadn't sent any messages. Things were spiralling out of control without her – things not necessarily related to Taim. Logain knew there was a good chance that the girl was dead, if Taim was a Darkfriend, as he strongly suspected. But he couldn't give up yet. There was something about her… She was special. The glowing aura that surrounded her… It was important, somehow, although Logain hadn’t yet figured out what it meant, exactly.

As for Taim… It made perfect sense to assume the man was a Darkfriend. He was in charge of all the male channelers in the world, or near enough – the Forsaken had probably fought over him. Or perhaps he was one of them. It wasn’t impossible. Taim was strong in the Power, he seemed to know weaves Logain had never dreamed of, and he was fluent in the Old Tongue. He could have learned all that from his masters, certainly, but what if he was Demandred or another male Forsaken in disguise?

Logain always tended to assume the worst; that way he was never disappointed by the truth.

* * *

Mazrim observed the party of three as they stabled their horses. Ablar refused to have servants do these trivial things for him, which seemed odd, since he’d started out as a noble, however minor, before that title was stripped from him. Mazrim wondered what schemes they'd been discussing out there in the woods.

But it didn’t matter. Ablar would be gone soon. The man had handed him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter. In fact, it was too perfect. Ablar clearly wanted to be out of the Tower, and recruiting was just a plausible excuse for disappearing for a while. Perhaps he would seek out al'Thor, have the boy finally take his responsibilities and assume command of the Black Tower. Perhaps it would be a good thing if he did.

Because once Logain was gone, Mazrim would have no semblance of excuse not to move on with the Turning process. Few of his Asha’man would require it, of course. That was why he'd recruited them in the first place, why he'd decided to give them these private lessons. Most of them were not evil, but they were ambitious, greedy, power-hungry, and they had little in the way of morals. There were a few he wasn't certain about, notably Mishraile, although Mazrim was under the impression that Mishraile would follow him to the Pit of Doom should he require it. And with him would follow his... companion, the Dedicated Lothbrok. Too weak in the Power, the man could never hope to become a full Asha’man, but he could still prove useful. In any case, Mazrim had been ordered to Turn them all - no Soldier or Dedicated would be spared, regardless of their strength in the Power. If they should cause trouble, or prove impossible to Turn – Moridin had not yet provided the female Dreadlords he’d promised – they would be executed on some pretence. He couldn’t afford to leave witnesses behind; Ablar wouldn’t be departing with his men, not all of them. The remainder would be spying on Mazrim, but hopefully they’d have no way to report to Ablar until he returned to the Tower.

Mazrim sipped some wine as Ablar and his pet witches walked toward their barracks, on the other end of the compound. He froze with his goblet halfway to his mouth when he caught sight of Ilawen running with several other children. She was covered in mud, but she seemed happier than he’d seen her in a while.

He felt guilty about many things, but this was the worst he’d ever felt. He’d learned recently that the girls had been… adopted by Mishraile and Lothbrok. It had never crossed Mazrim’s mind that no one would take them in. He should have been more attentive. He'd been too intent on being rid of them, of the potential threat they represented. He'd been so concerned for their safety, so worried about Neya that he'd acted without thinking. And now they were staying with Atal, who would likely become Mazrim's second-in-command. That plan had backfired, alright.

Everyone seemed to have taken leave of their senses since Neya had disappeared; no child would have been abandoned if Neya were still around. Mazrim had had to find three separate replacements for her, to supervise the tasks she'd overseen. He'd never realised how much she was doing to unburden him. She'd been keeping it all together. Now the men were restless and brawled in the streets, the chores schedule was in disarray... He knew Ablar could be blamed for many things, but Neya's absence certainly had a part to play in the current chaos. Perhaps everything would get under control when Ablar was gone, but Mazrim doubted it. It seemed like nothing would ever be right again.


	48. It's a bitch convincing people to like you

Bao took some time to observe Neya as she practiced with Torn. She had not yet noticed him, engrossed as she was in her fighting, and neither had the one-time mercenary. A few of the Ayyad had acknowledged Bao’s presence with a simple nod as he moved among the cluster of tents, but nothing more. The Sharans were one of the least formal people Bao had ever encountered, and he had visited many parts of the world in his youth, tribes and lands whose people were considered primitive – they had been considered thus at the time but could have taught much to anyone from this Age. This lack of formality, which applied to everyone but the female Ayyad, didn’t bother Bao in the least. Time was often wasted to acknowledge a person’s title or rank, and Bao could not afford to waste any time.

The Last Battle would begin in earnest soon, he could feel it. A few months at most, but he was convinced the matter would be resolved before summer was out. The issue was already known to him, of course. The Great Lord of the Dark would at last triumph in the eternal war. Moridin was correct; there could be no other end.

He focused on the two opponents stalking each other in the practice pit. Torn’s technique was crude, a perfect example of the swordsmanship in this backward Age. As for Neya… Her style was mismatched, but a few sword forms were uncannily familiar. As the two took a break to rehydrate – the weather was oft oppressive, in these parts, even in the winter, even at night, and the fighters were both slick with sweat – Bao moved forward to reveal his presence.

They were alone in the area. It was late, and most of the boys had already retired to their tents. Bao knew that Neya sometimes remained awake late into the night. Perhaps she had trouble adjusting to the time difference between Andor and Shara, although she had been here for over a month. Or perhaps sleep eluded her. After two intensive weeks, they had found a balanced pace here at the Ayyad camp. They were progressing just as quickly as Bao had hoped.

Neya had taken to Shara and its inhabitants like a fish to water – just as Bao had expected. She had not bothered to complain or attempt to flee, wisely realising that it would be futile. There was nowhere she could run off to, and his sources had been correct: Neya could not Travel, nor do much with the Power besides Healing. She was, however, surprisingly apt with that ability, for one of this Age – or indeed, even for one of Bao’s Age. And she had not yet received any proper training. He hoped he would have time to see to that, but the female Ayyad were of little assistance. Bao had yet to win them over.

Torn was the first to notice him. He grinned widely. “Bao! Care to join us? This one could use some assistance,” he said jovially, inclining his head toward Neya, who turned with a frown.

This was far from the truth, but Torn was an outspoken, boastful man. “Not tonight. May I have a word with Neya, in private?”

Torn, for once, did not protest, and swiftly departed, after bowing slightly to Neya. An odd gesture, for a Sharan, but it made her laugh. Bao heard her take a deep breath before she fully turned around to face him. “Bao. Is aught amiss?” she said with a twitch of her lips. She seemed to take pleasure in borrowing figures of speech from Bao’s Age, probably to mock him, but he let it slide. At least she was not cussing, though it seemed to require all of her concentration to refrain from doing so.

“I would have a few words regarding your sword forms,” he told her. Bao had only come here to take her report on the Ayyad, because he had not visited the camp in two weeks, but now he felt mildly inquisitive. Who had taught her to fight like a Blademaster of an Age long gone?

Neya scowled in confusion. “What about them?”

“I am curious to know where you learned some of them. Lews Therin never used that last parade, for example, yet it is a form of our Age.” He would not call it the Age of Legends if he could avoid it. The name was ridiculous.

Her scowl deepened, as if she could not fathom his words. “When you say Lews Therin, you mean Rand, yes?”

Bao made an effort not to roll his eyes. What did it matter what the man called himself? He was Lews Therin, whatever his appearance. He knew he had to be patient with her, however. Neya was a child of this Age, and a young, inexperienced woman besides. “Yes, al’Thor. You practiced with him when you were stranded in Rhuidean, correct?”

“Yes, but… Elan taught me, not Rand. Well before I found myself in the Waste.”

Bao almost frowned, but he managed to keep his face impassive. Moridin had said nothing of this. According to the _Nae’blis_ , Neya had been his captive for over a year, but he had had little contact with her in that time. As to why he had captured her in the first place, the man had remained vague, as usual.

Neya seemed to catch on with that thought. Perhaps Bao had not remained as impassive as he had imagined. “You didn’t know,” she said. She almost smiled, but he could tell that she reconsidered at the last instant. “I thought you were aware of my previous dealings with the other… Chosen.” The hesitation was clear, though he had already explained that it mattered little to him what she called his associates. She must be afraid that he would blast her where she stood if she used the wrong term.

Bao did not like to use fear as an incentive for his followers. He wished he could persuade Neya that he wanted only what was best for this world and its people, but she was clearly not in a state of mind to accept that, not yet. That time would come, however. Shendla had assured him of it.

“I know that Ishamael kept you prisoner for a long time, until Lews Therin killed him. That Lanfear found you, tortured you and sent you to Rhuidean, to spy on Lews Therin and Asmodean.” That was as much as Moridin had told him. His spies had provided more information regarding her travel from Rhuidean to Cairhien, but most of that was still fuzzy. Neya had disappeared for ten days, just before the party departed Rhuidean, and no one had been able to explain why, or where she had been. It seemed unlikely that Lanfear would have held her away for so long and for no apparent reason, but it was the only explanation that made sense. Bao was still unsure whether Asmodean and Neya had truly been lovers. It seemed clear that it had started out as pretence for staying close to the man, but several of his sources claimed it had been more than that. Not that it mattered. Asmodean was inconsequential to the Last Battle. The Musician had always been useless. “Yet it seems details of your captivity were… omitted,” Bao went on.

“Elan kept me stranded in that weird place for a long time, but I was hardly a prisoner. He taught me much about the Age of Legends. I had his library at my disposal, and he even gave me a sword – a _yatagan_.” An artefact from their Age, rare even then. And Ishamael had given it to her, taught her how to use it? Darkness within, why would he do that? Had he intended to use Neya as a pawn for the Shadow? But if so, why not simply Turn her? She could have been useful as a Friend of the Dark, even an unwilling one, although Bao disliked the process, and what it did to the victims. Their capacity to think was vastly diminished, often to the point of uselessness. They feared nothing, which rendered them reckless. They made good cannon fodder, true, but that would have been a waste of Neya’s abilities. Ishamael must have known that. Had he therefore decided to attempt to Turn her the other way? By gaining her trust, convincing her that what they were doing was for the best? If so, it had clearly been a waste of time.

“Did he ever mention the other Chosen?” Surely even Ishamael, mad as he was, had not revealed their plans or locations.

Neya hesitated. She had better think twice about lying to him. She had been testing him ever since he had brought her here. Bao knew she had kept facts to herself when he had interrogated her about the three _ta’veren._ He had chosen to ignore it, for the time being. Cauthon and Aybara mattered little to him at the moment, and he knew exactly where Lews Therin was and what he was planning to do. That was enough for now. “Nothing of import, really. Just what you were like before you turned to the Shadow. It was all good,” she assured him, as if he cared about that. “Well, in your case it was,” she amended. She appeared to consider whether to ask something that likely had the potential to irritate him. She finally gave in. “You weren’t lovers, were you?”

Bao had a hard time maintaining his composure. What in the Pit of Doom…? With as much poised as he could muster, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

Neya laughed in embarrassment. “No, I thought not. That was just Jasin, then.”

“Jasin?” What was she talking about?

“I mean Asmodean. I just… Well, you and Elan worked together for years, so I thought, maybe…” She shook her head. “Forget I said anything.”

He could hardly forget such inane insinuations. And what was that about Asmodean? “Ishamael and Asmodean were lovers?” He couldn’t help a frown.

“Of course.” She seemed surprised that he did not know. “For a very short time, Elan always said, but Jasin – Asmodean – claimed it went on for a few years. But your notion of a short time is different from mine,” she added. She was a channeler, too. Her own notion of time would change as she aged, though she did not realise it yet.

Could that explain why Asmodean still lived? Graendal had made an attempt on his life months ago, and failed miserably, thanks to Neya. No one had bothered since then, but the _Nae’blis_ had commanded them to stay away from the Musician. The remaining Chosen had been understandably perplexed by that order, since Asmodean was hardly worth mentioning at this point.

Neya cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable in the awkward silence – though it was only awkward for her. Silence never bothered Bao. It gave him time to think, to study his interlocutors. “Anyway. You wanted to talk. I suppose there was more to it than discussing sword forms?”

Bao proceeded to take her report on the Ayyad’s progress. It did not take long; not much had changed since his last visit. Everything was going according to plan.

“You have not heard from Ishamael since you were released in the Waste, have you?” Bao asked on a whim when Neya was done. Moridin had not mentioned being in contact with her, but Bao would not put it past the man.

Neya appeared truly confounded. “I thought… Lanfear said Ishamael was dead. He _is_ dead, isn’t he?”

Her reaction seemed genuine. She did not know about Moridin. “Yes, Ishamael is dead,” Bao confirmed. He only lied if the situation required it, but in this case, it was the simple truth. Moridin was not Ishamael. Something had been lost in the process of reincarnation, what had been the essence of Elan Morin Tedronai. If anything were to happen to him, Bao would prefer an irrevocable death – but that choice would not be his to make, of course.

Bao looked up at the moon. He ought to Travel back to the Capital; he had an appointment with Galbrait in just a few hours, and he needed time to plan, to find a way past this increasingly frustrating obstacle. Whatever he did, Galbrait refused to yield. She would not give an iota of power to an outlander, even the Wyld – and Bao was not the Wyld, not yet. The Ayyad was infuriating; she would have made a useful Friend of the Dark as well, but no such luck, and Bao was not ready to give in and Turn her against her will. She would be much more useful as a willing ally. Still, it was sometimes an effort to restrain himself from tearing the woman apart. She was arrogant, confident in her position, cunning, ruthless. And yet Bao knew that this would be a grave mistake. He would not win the Sharans over by murdering their leaders and, because of Graendal, they had already lost their Sh’botay. Galbrait had not proposed to elect a new one; Bao suspected that the woman wanted the leadership for herself, and refused to hide behind an ornamental figure any longer. He could not blame her for that.

Bao was increasingly certain that it would require Neya’s assistance to convince the blasted woman to put him in charge, and give him control of the army – at least until the Last Battle. The Sharans had to see that it concerned them as much as the Westlanders. The fact that a Wyld had been revealed, even if Bao was only manipulating their Prophecies, should have sufficed; and yet the Ayyad refused to bend.

According to Bao’s _ter’angreal_ , Neya was stronger than Galbrait – and possibly stronger than his female associates, now that Lanfear was gone, though Bao still had to confirm that. Being the most powerful female channeler in Shara at the time being, to Bao’s knowledge, Neya could prove to be the solution to this botheration. The female Ayyad’s hierarchy was simple: the most powerful woman ruled, no matter her personality or competency. Galbrait was in fact quite competent, and she possessed all the qualities necessary to a decent leader. She simply stood in Bao’s way.

Bao had to figure out precisely how Neya could assist him, and he had to do it quickly. He would plan something, preferably with Shendla’s help. It was disconcerting, how much he’d come to rely on the Sharan woman. How much he trusted her, when he trusted no one else. She had supported him from the beginning, and he knew she always would, come what may. She had been the first to pledge her life to Bao, and thanks to her, many more had done the same. He could not have done all this without her, without her vast knowledge of Shara and its people, without her keen acumen.

Bringing Neya here had been Shendla’s idea. The girl was important, she claimed. She would turn out to be one of Bao’s staunchest allies, she had assured him. Bao had no reason to doubt her. After all, she had been right about everything else.


	49. It's a bittersweet symphony

Frustratingly, Mazrim had no clue what was going on. None of his spies had reported on the matter. If the Forsaken were involved, responsible, or if they knew anything about it, they hadn't bothered to inform him. It was possible that they were as clueless as he was, but Mazrim somehow doubted it. Moridin, especially, always appeared to know everything.

Mazrim stood in his new study, atop the tower of his palace, his favourite brooding spot, with its vantage point over most of the Black Tower. Like every other channeler in the world, he’d been studying with unfeigned curiosity the mesmerising beacon of Power that was lit up not so far from where he stood.

Every Soldier and Dedicated outside had been gaping in the same direction for hours. Mazrim had insisted that everyone should carry on with their chores and lessons as if it were a perfectly normal day, but he could tell they were distracted, constantly glancing over their shoulders and muttering to each other.

Mazrim was about to go outside to do some more scolding and threatening when the world seemed to freeze.

At least, his men froze. They abandoned whatever they were doing and collectively gasped, staring in the direction of the beacon – which winked out of existence as Mazrim turned his gaze to it.

Whatever had been going on appeared to be over. Mazrim hoped that the men would go back to their activities now, but he was disappointed. And more than a little confused when they exploded into frenzied cheering.

Several men embraced heartily, others ran to their wives and children and scooped them up in their arms. A handful sat down and cried, others laughed. An older Soldier improvised a little jig and was joined by several Dedicated.

Mazrim stared at them all in horror for a few minutes. Had they all gone mad at the same time? No, it was something else. They were clearly happy about something, but what?

As if his thoughts had summoned an answer, there was a frantic knock on the door. “Come in,” Mazrim called out impatiently. He turned around to see a panting Mishraile. His golden hair was slick with sweat, his blue eyes wild.

“M’Hael,” he saluted with a wheeze.

“Catch your breath, lad.” Mazrim indicated the chair facing his carved mahogany desk. The boy nodded gratefully and half-fell in the seat.

Mazrim allowed him a minute to recuperate and poured them both some wine. He set one glass in front of the young Asha’man then sat in his own chair on the other side of the desk, waiting for the breaking news.

“The taint, M’Hael,” Mishraile said when his breathing had settled. “It’s gone.”

It should have been obvious. There was no other reason for the men to cheer collectively, Mazrim realised now, short of news that the Dragon Reborn had destroyed the Dark One. The fact that Mishraile had felt the need to run to announce it to Mazrim was bothersome, to say the least.

Mazrim took a moment to compose himself. “Evidently,” he said eventually, with the trace of a sneer.

Mishraile frowned slightly but said nothing. He grabbed his glass and gulped it down in one. He glanced at Mazrim as he set it back on the desk, clearly awaiting orders.

Right. Orders. Mazrim tried to focus on the matter at hand, while his mind did its best to consider every possible consequence of this latest development. Lately, he had more trouble than ever to control the stream of his thoughts. “Tell everyone to take the rest of the day off,” he said eventually. That should buy him some time to gather his thoughts. He probably ought to make some sort of announcement, but that could wait until tomorrow. Perhaps he would know more of what had happened by then. “No excesses,” he warned the Asha’man, implying that he’d hold Mishraile personally responsible should anything happen. “And have someone keep watch at the front gate at all times.” He waved the boy away, dismissing him. He had much to think on. Mishraile stood and saluted, and walked to the door. Mazrim returned to his spot by the window.

He realised he hadn’t heard Mishraile’s departing footsteps just before the Asha’man spoke up. “M’Hael?” he said hesitantly.

Mazrim didn’t turn around. “Yes?” His glass was empty, so he summoned the wine carafe over with a weave to pour himself another one.

He heard Mishraile clear his throat. “Will we be required to take an oath?”

Mazrim frowned at his own reflection in the window. “Whatever for?”

“When we follow you into the Last Battle, instead of the Dragon Reborn…” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to.

“Most of the other Asha’man are already Dreadlords, Mishraile,” Mazrim said quietly. The Forsaken had pointed out their assets to Mazrim as they arrived at the Tower. Most of these Darkfriends seemed to belong to Moridin. Mazrim sometimes wondered if that was really his name, or if one of the more infamous Forsaken was posing as an impossibly pretty youth, for some reason. “But you need not become one. Not as long as you swear fealty to me, and that you will fight under my command in the Last Battle.” It seemed pointless to demand an oath from those who didn’t wish to take it, especially now. The only advantage that Mazrim ever could find in becoming a Darkfriend was that it protected a male channeler from the taint, and Mishraile was in fact the only one who hadn’t been a Darkfriend to begin with or hadn’t become one as he was allowed in Mazrim’s private classes. The boy had been too promising to leave behind, and Mazrim felt that he had already earned Mishraile’s loyalty, though he wasn’t sure why.

“I’m your man, M’Hael. I’ll follow you to the Pit of Doom, if you command it. I swear it under the–“ He cut off abruptly, probably realising how inappropriate swearing under the Light would be.

“That will do,” Mazrim murmured. “Dismissed, Asha’man.”

He waited until he spotted Mishraile in the courtyard before throwing his glass across the room. It exploded against one the bookshelves in a cloud of glittering crystal and splashed several books with red wine. Mazrim cursed and embraced _saidin._ It felt as invigorating as ever, immaculate and compelling. He didn’t sense any difference, of course. He’d been channeling unpolluted _saidin_ for too long to remember what the taint felt like.

It was terrible, Mazrim reflected as the men outside celebrated. It was worse than anything he’d expected.

Turning people who were doomed to go mad and die was one thing. But these men now potentially had their whole lives ahead of them. They could raise their children and play with their grandchildren and never fear that they would bring about their deaths. They could live very long, full lives and be happy.

It had been bad enough before, but Mazrim had had an excuse, if a poor one - he'd convinced himself that he was doing them a favour, for they wouldn't be lucid enough to witness the death and destruction of the Last Battle. Should the Dark One triumph, they would not suffer, wouldn't grieve for their loved ones.

The crushing realisation of what he was about to do to them, just when things were finally looking up, felt oppressive enough to suffocate him.

* * *

The Choedan Kal, which Natael had never seen in action before – no one had – was more than impressive. It was frightening. He was almost relieved that the female key had been destroyed; in fact, he’d feel much safer if its male counterpart were to suffer the same fate. No one should have that much power, let alone a mere boy whose mind was crumbling.

Natael finished knotting the bandage around his arm. He had taken no wound in the fighting; al’Thor had not allowed him to take part in defending the area. Natael had been pushed into the background, as he ever was. Which didn’t bother him in the least, of course.

The injury was self-inflicted, so to speak. Natael had slipped on a rock and badly grazed his elbow, thus staining his favourite purple silk shirt. Perhaps he should have worn something more practical to the event but, in his mind, he’d been dressing for his own funeral.

He looked around him. The Asha’man were still stunned; everyone else appeared dizzy. The sheer enormity of what had just occurred left Natael incredulous. He’d been following the Dragon for months now, and knew to expect the improbable from the young man, but to cleanse the taint from the male half of the Source… Natael had been adamant that al’Thor would destroy them all in the attempt. He’d tried to dissuade him, on multiple occasions, but the lad was stubborn. Mule-headed, as Neya would have put it.

But the whole enterprise had been a glorious success. Al’Thor and the al’Meara girl had survived, but more importantly: the taint was gone. _Saidin_ was clean again, although Natael hadn’t dared channel more than a trickle of the Power to revel in its renewed purity. Thankfully, the male channelers around him were too busy marvelling over the fact that they wouldn’t go mad to pay Natael any attention.

He had recovered his full strength weeks ago. No one knew it, not even al’Thor – Natael was careful to never channel around him, or any of the Asha’man, and his ability to channel was masked at all times besides.

He felt no urge to do anything with his recovered strength, however. The Great Lord wouldn’t take him back. The Chosen would kill him on sight. He was much safer here, certainly, with al’Thor convinced he could channel only a trickle of the Power. Perhaps he would act if an opportunity presented itself – and perhaps not. He had everything to lose if anything went amiss – his life, to begin with. He was quite fond of it.

Posing as the Lord Dragon’s Court Bard, everyone overlooked him. Al’Thor himself sometimes seemed to forget that Natael even existed. He couldn’t have faded in the background any better if he’d tried. He could do practically anything he wanted – these days, it consisted mainly in drinking, playing his harp and having an overall good time. That was more than enough for now. He would lay low until the Last Battle was played out and consider his options then. That seemed to be the safest course.

Thanks to the shield Mierin had forced upon him, Natael must have been the only person who knew that Lanfear had survived her fall through the _ter’angreal,_ back in Cairhien. But al’Thor had been focused entirely on bringing down Rahvin, and even in the aftermath of the battle he had not mentioned Mierin, had not wondered whether Natael’s shield was still in place. The lad was convinced that both women had perished on the spot, but apparently it had not occurred to him that Natael would be released from Lanfear’s weave if she died.

Lanfear had survived quite some time in Sindhol, against Natael’s expectations, but the Finn must have drained her eventually. Now that he was confident of her demise, Natael felt lighter than he had since he’d come out of the Bore. There was another Chosen whose name he could cross off the list. Not that they’d made any attempt to find him, not since Graendal. Perhaps Neya had frightened them away, but he doubted it. They must know Neya was no longer with him – in fact, they undoubtedly knew precisely where she was, unlike Natael.

She wasn’t in Andor, according to rumour and gossip. She’d become more noteworthy than she probably realised, as co-leader of the infamous Black Tower. Tales of her disappearance had begun spreading about a month ago, but al’Thor hadn’t investigated. He claimed the girl often vanished – only to find herself somewhere even more unlikely than before, in the most unexpected company. Natael was well aware of that, but still. He was worried about her, though he knew she could look after herself. He wished he didn’t care, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get Neya out of his head.

At least she was away from Taim. The man was dangerous, Natael could tell, even if he wasn’t a Friend of the Dark – which was unlikely. A place where they trained male channelers and prepared them for battle? Of course the Chosen would want it, would want to control its leader. Taim might have been groomed for that very purpose, maybe even planted as a False Dragon to begin with – by Ishamael, most likely, since he’d been released earlier than the other Chosen. Provided that he’d been sealed in the Bore to begin with. Natael wasn’t certain that he had.

Natael had encountered Taim thrice, though he doubted the M’Hael would remember him – he was just a bard, only there to provide background music, not worth a second glance. Taim was quite handsome, Natael hadn’t failed to notice. He reminded him somewhat of Demandred, when he was younger, when he was still Barid Bel Medar. They had the same hooked nose, the same austere expression and they both radiated danger. Demandred’s eyes were dark green, however, whereas Taim’s were as black as obsidian. In any case, it was no wonder Neya had fallen for the M’Hael. She obviously had a preference for tall, good-looking men. Preferably with brooding tendencies.

He’d warned al'Thor about Taim, and even the girl, Min – it seemed she was the only one the Dragon listened to – but to no avail.

Min knew who Natael really was. She was one of the few people alive who did. She claimed she’d seen... interesting things about him, in her odd viewings. She said she didn’t know what they meant, and Natael believed her. None of it made any bloody sense. A _monkey_? A building that, according to her descriptions, resembled the Collam Daan of yore? He had no idea what it could possibly mean.

Natael suspected that Cadsuane Melaidhrin knew who he was, as well, but she apparently didn’t consider him as a threat, though she had him under constant watch. Perhaps Min had told her – willingly or reluctantly. There was little one could keep secret from the ancient Aes Sedai, it seemed. Was she older than Natael? He’d been just short of his three hundredth birthday when he’d been sealed in the Bore. Cadsuane certainly gave off an aura he associated with great age – not eerie wisdom, but unconcealed impatience and a general annoyance toward younger people.

As he considered the ravaged city around him, Natael wondered how his former associates would react to this newest development. He’d caught a glimpse of Demandred earlier, and skirmishes had broken out in various locations around Shadar Logoth. Plainly, the remaining Chosen had been ordered to put a stop to al’Thor’s insane plan – and they had failed miserably. One of their puppets had died, a man named Dashiva, a deserter from the Black Tower. Natael idly wondered who his master or mistress was, who had sent him to his death. Of course, they had suffered casualties as well, though not as many as Natael might have expected, with so many of the Chosen attacking at once.

But none of it really mattered to him. He was glad to be rid of the taint – a few months of dealing with that abject feeling had been more than enough. He could only hope that it hadn’t affected him in this brief period. He didn’t _feel_ mad, but would he know if he was? Al’Thor didn’t seem to realise he was losing his mind.

Natael often wondered if al’Thor was ever going to reveal his identity, or if he intended to keep it secret forever – well, until he died, anyway, which would happen at the Last Battle, at the latest. Natael couldn't think of a way for al'Thor to survive, whatever the issue. His death had, after all, been prophesised long ago.

Well, that was al’Thor’s problem. Natael was alive. That was all he truly cared about.

* * *

Moridin hadn’t expected the Chosen to succeed in disrupting al’Thor’s operation. With the Choedan Kal at his disposal, the boy had been virtually unstoppable. His subordinates would have been insane to even try; it would have been suicide. They must have realised it as soon as they Traveled to Shadar Logoth. After a few tentative jabs, they’d wisely decided that it would be better to suffer Moridin’s wrath than to get themselves futilely killed.

In truth, Moridin had had no reason _not_ to want the Dragon to succeed: after all, Taim and the Black Tower belonged to him. This accomplishment and its consequences therefore greatly favoured the Shadow. Al’Thor didn’t realise it yet, but he’d just given over to the Great Lord a formidable supply of Dreadlords who would never go mad. Of course the Great Lord might be mildly displeased. He’d enjoyed instilling the taint in _saidin_ , one of his nastiest manoeuvres, and the most destructive one by far. But the Great Lord would understand why Moridin had let it happen. There would be no punishment for this “failure”.

In other words, everything had worked out according to Moridin’s plan.

Well, except for Ishar Morrad’s demise. But honestly, what had the man been thinking? Hadn’t he realised that the defenders were linked and outmatched him? The man had always been a coward, but an overconfident one. He would have attacked only if he believed he had the upper hand. Moridin doubted that the Great Lord would bring him back a second time. Second chances were rare as it were, and He would likely draw the line there.

It was a shame, of course. Moridin had never liked Aginor, not in any of his incarnations, but he was a genius. A demented one, perhaps, but a genius still. His many skills would be missed. And with the Chosen already greatly reduced in numbers…

He considered Taim again. The man was an obvious choice, but Moridin felt that the timing wasn’t right, not yet. Taim was still hung up on Neya; she was his lifeline, his last remaining link to the Light. Moridin was confident that Demandred would soon crush whatever hopes Taim might still harbour, however. Not by killing Neya – Barid Bel obviously had other plans for the girl – but by making certain she would never come back to the Westlands. Moridin had a vague suspicion that his old friend hoped to Turn the girl to the Shadow – the natural way. He’d always been good at that, at persuading people to see his point of view, to follow him. He inspired people. And he had a way with women, just like Lews Therin. Perhaps he would even succeed – Moridin doubted it, but it would certainly work to their advantage. If anyone could manage such a feat, it was Demandred.

Moridin couldn’t help but wonder why al’Thor left Taim alone, with not even a few spies to report on M'Hael's activities, as far as Moridin could tell. Wasn’t he in the least suspicious? Lews Therin had always been too trusting, but never stupid. Perhaps the boy simply had too much on his plate to deal with the Black Tower – he was currently trying to forge an alliance with the Seanchan, a vain task. Semirhage would see that it never came to fruition. Moridin had faith in her. Like Demandred, the Lady of Pain rarely disappointed.

And if Taim proved unworthy, or insufficient to bolster their ranks… There was always Nessosin. Moridin had kept the man alive for that very purpose. The Musician always allied with whoever had the upper hand, with the side that was less likely to get him killed. Right now, he believed his best chance lay with al’Thor. But that would change, as the Last Battle loomed inevitably closer. Nessosin would never return to the Light. He was only pretending to be subdued so that al’Thor would dismiss him, of that Moridin was certain.

Most of Moridin’s subordinates had a low opinion of the Musician. He was a coward, he was treacherous, opportunistic. That was all true, but Nessosin had his moments. Besides, the Great Lord hadn’t commanded Moridin to have him disposed of. Perhaps He had other plans for him. Nessosin may yet have a part to play.

But all in good time. The end was nigh, but there was no use precipitating things. Everything was falling gently into place, slowly but inevitably.


	50. To test the limits and break through

Neya had finally done it. She had found a way to Heal the madness in male channelers.

Any other day, this would have been considered a miraculous accomplishment but, in light of recent events – namely, Rand's performance with the Choedan Kal – it appeared almost mundane. Still, she was quite pleased with herself. It had not been a complete waste of time in any case: the madness that was already corrupting a few of the male Ayyad hadn't magically disappeared after Rand's exploit.

Kalayaan was the first to suggest she try it, after she recounted to him the experiments she'd conducted at the Black Tower a few months ago. She had Delved him but, thankfully, she hadn't found a single dark patch in his brain. He had almost begged her to check on Abrazo as well, because Kal was convinced that it was the reason the older boy was slow-witted, even though Neya explained that the madness was unlikely to have appeared when he was a child. She didn't know that it was impossible, but it was improbable. Upon Delving Abe, she had found a large black web located in his temporal lobe. That might at least explain why he was having such a hard time learning how to speak.

Neya had been reluctant to attempt any actual Healing, for the same reasons as before, but Kal insisted that it could hardly make him worse in any case. That had not been particularly reassuring, but she had let him convince her.

After a more thorough Delving, she realised that there were tiny thorns that seemed to hold the dark web together. She removed them, one by one, slowly and cautiously. She had to Heal the needle-thin pricks caused by the thorns in Abe's brain as she went along, and she had to keep the other thorns from re-entering, but in the end she managed to extract every single one of them. As she’d pulled out the last one, the web had trembled then vanished altogether.

Abe had stared at her blankly with his mouth hanging open, and she had been afraid that she had indeed managed to make it worse, but a bright smile had suddenly lit up his face and he had lifted her off her feet, crushing her in his arms. Kal almost had to pry her out of his grip, although he was laughing the entire time. It wasn't clear exactly what had been the manifestation of madness in the young Ayyad, but he seemed happy to be rid of it in any case. Unfortunately, as Neya had feared, it hadn't made him any less dull. Kalayaan didn't seem to care, however, and neither did Abe.

She set to Delve every Ayyad for the taint's corruption that very day, although it took her the better part of three days to see the task through. She had begun with the boys who could already channel; only seven of them had exhibited a dark patch. Unsure whether those who hadn't displayed any signs of channeling could have been touched by the madness, Neya had decided that it would be safer to make certain they were all clear. She found a surprisingly dense network in the brain of a boy of fourteen, although he showed no outward sign of being afflicted in any way. It made her wonder if the taint had really caused it, or something else. Seven more boys were treated by her that day. The rest of them appeared perfectly healthy, although she would Delve them again if they proved able to wield  _saidin_ , just in case.

Neya felt incredibly gratified by her discovery. Those boys she Healed would have a normal life and grow old without fear of destroying everyone they loved. That was all she had ever wanted. She felt like she had fulfilled her mission in life. It was a grand feeling.

And Rand's astonishing feat set her spirits even higher. No male channeler would ever need fear the taint again, bless the man.

She had expected Bao to be righteously furious when he came to announce it that morning, but the Forsaken had simply gathered the boys and explained what had happened, never once mentioning Rand. Obviously, everyone had cheered him as if he'd done it all himself, cries of  _Glory to the Wyld!_  echoing throughout the crowd.

Bao met with Neya in her tent afterward, his face expressionless. Either he was seething inwardly and quite apt at concealing it or he really didn't care, unlikely as it was. Or maybe he cared about what it meant for the Ayyad and was pleased for them? Neya doubted it.

She didn't know exactly what had happened in the West that day. She had sensed it, of course; every channeler in the world must have been able to feel the prodigious amounts of the Power that were being wielded. But Bao hadn't given her much detail regarding the event. All she knew was that Rand and Nynaeve – of course it would be her; hadn't Neya said she could Heal anything if she put her mind to it? – had channeled through the male and female Choedan Kal and somehow cleansed the taint, destroying the ancient, cursed city of Aridhol, as well as one of the  _sa'angreal,_  in the process.

Although he didn’t say it in so many words, it appeared that Bao and the other Forsaken had at least tried to stop them, but Neya couldn’t figure out _why_. Rand obviously didn’t realise it yet, but the Black Tower men were ruled by a Dreadlord and the male Ayyad by one of the Forsaken. The cleansing of the taint seemed to tilt the balance heavily in the Shadow’s favour. Still, Neya couldn’t help but be happy about it. Whoever was in charge of them, she cared deeply for the male channelers, Westlanders and Sharans alike. It filled her with joy to know that this burden had been taken away from them. Besides, if Mazrim and Bao could be somehow turned to the Light…

Now, there was a silly idea. Bao, especially, was surely too far gone. He’d been a Forsaken for thousands of years.

Had he, though? Neya considered this. He’d been one of the last to turn to the Shadow, not long before Lews Therin sealed the Bore. Therefore, in reality, Demandred truly had been a Forsaken only for a few years – his time in the Bore hardly counted, since he’d been… asleep, for lack of a better word. Well, now was not the time to ponder over this. Neya set the thought aside for later consideration.

Bao remained absolutely impassive as he recounted the story of the cleansing, as though he was thoroughly unimpressed. Neya doubted that were the case, but she didn't press him for details; if he'd wanted her to know more, he would have told her.

She took the opportunity of his visit to relay her own good news. He hid pretty well, but Neya thought she caught a glimpse of admiration in his dark green eyes. He even congratulated her, which made her blush. The fact that she _knew_ she was blushing only intensified the burning in her cheeks. Thankfully, Bao quickly changed the subject.

"I shall require your assistance to teach a short lesson to the Ayyad today," he told her. "I need them all to be able to form a circle."

"A circle?" Neya repeated with a frown. "I don't even know what that is, and you can't show me how it's done. How can I assist if I don't know how to do it?"

"Someone will come along to demonstrate, one of the female Ayyad's servants."

"If she knows how to do it, why do I need to assist you? Also, Mintel said that the servants could channel, but that they weren't allowed to. And I thought you had abolished slavery?" She realised she was asking a lot of questions, but she always took the opportunity of Bao’s visits to do just that. He rarely seemed to mind and usually answered truthfully – as far as Neya could tell.

"She is not a slave, she is a servant," he replied curtly. _Same difference_ , Neya thought, although she didn’t say it aloud. Mintel claimed that the female Ayyad’s servants were slaves in all but name. She had a feeling that Bao was perfectly aware of that. It could only mean that the Ayyad had not given in to freeing their own slaves – and the fact that Bao had allowed it for so long said a lot about the difficulties he was encountering in the Capital. "And I told you before that my alliance with the Ayyad is a delicate one,” he went on, as though he’d read her thoughts. “They do not answer to me, not yet. The servant has been… lent to me for the occasion, but I need another female channeler for the demonstration."

"But what's a circle?" she asked again.

"That is what we call the joining of two or more channelers to increase their strength in the Power. Men cannot form a circle on their own, however," he explained patiently. Elan had always been slightly pedantic when he explained these things, and Jasin was often downright disdainful of her ignorance, but Bao usually endured the torrent of her questions with impressive self-control.

"But I thought I wasn't supposed to reveal my ability to channel to the female Ayyad.” Neya pointed to the heavy gold necklace that supposedly masked said ability. “Won’t she snitch on me?"

For a second, Bao seemed puzzled by the word _snitch_ , but he must have deciphered its meaning. "The girl is a Friend of the Dark," Bao told her. "She is loyal to me. She shall do as I command."

Neya wasn't sure how she felt at having to work with a Darkfriend. Then she realised she was being silly: she had been aiding Demandred for weeks now, and had been helping Mazrim for months. It couldn't get much worse than that. Not for the first time, she wondered if she hadn’t become a Darkfriend herself somewhere along the way, however unwittingly - and unwillingly. She quickly brushed the disturbing thought aside and shrugged lightly for Bao’s benefit. "Fine. Let's make a circle."

While Bao briefly Traveled back to the Capital to fetch the Darkfriend, Neya assembled the boys who could channel. She was explaining what they were about to do, the little she knew, when Bao came back with a willowy, dark-skinned woman in her late twenties. Bao introduced her as Saseko. She had full lips, and large doe eyes the colour of amber. Neya had rarely seen a more beautiful or graceful woman.

She disliked her right away.

Bao didn’t waste any time with the lesson. He began by demonstrating with Saseko then asked Neya to join them in the circle. It was easy enough, once she picked up the trick. Of course, Bao never relinquished the lead of the circle to either of them, but Neya was still impressed by the sheer amount of Power that was coursing through her.

The theory behind circles was more complicated than she'd assumed. There were limitations and exceptions; as it were, with only two women, they couldn't form a circle of more than four channelers. They practiced for an hour, until every boy could do it easily, Abe included. It was remarkable how quickly he picked up this sort of things, when he had difficulty even dressing himself sometimes.

At the end of the day, it seemed increasingly obvious to Neya that Bao needed the female Ayyad more than he let on. This shaky alliance he'd established had to be strengthened if he hoped to reach a full circle of seventy-two, which seemed to be his ultimate objective – or at least _one_ of his objectives. Besides, if he intended to lead the whole nation to fight in the Last Battle, he would also need the Ayyad and their prevailing authority over matters of state and war. Indeed, with the Sh'botay and his consort gone, the Ayyad had made it plain that they now ruled Shara in all but name, Wyld or no Wyld. They said it wasn't Bao’s place to rule. His sole purpose, they claimed, was to unite the people _under_ _them_ , as was mentioned in their prophecies. Prophecies, however, could be interpreted in many ways, and often turned out to mean something else entirely. Bao argued that no part of the prophecies mentioned the Ayyad at all, but Neya couldn’t possibly decide who had the right of it, as she had yet to get her hands on the blasted texts.

In any case, it was clear to Neya that Bao wouldn't let the matter go. She wondered how he was going to make them bend to him, without breaking them. It seemed unlikely that the Ayyad – whom Neya had dubbed the Aes Sedai of the East – would relinquish their newfound supremacy without a fight.


	51. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind

Logain stepped through the gateway just outside the wall surrounding the Black Tower.

The boy who stood guard at the main entrance, an Asha’man whose name Logain could not remember, didn’t halt them. He looked bored out of his mind. Logain didn’t stop to make conversation. He allowed his men to join their families inside the compound while he visited the palace. They wouldn’t be staying long; they should all make the most of their time here.

He made his way to the palace at a swift pace. As the odds would have it, Mishraile was guarding the front door. He stood with his back straight, blue eyes alert. They settled on Logain the moment he came into Mishraile’s line of sight. The younger man scowled darkly.

Logain approached him, squaring his shoulders. “Mishraile-” he began to say.

“The M’Hael is not to be disturbed,” the Asha’man cut in sharply.

Logain did his best to contain his annoyance and keep his face impassive. “I’m afraid he does not have a choice in the matter.” He couldn’t keep the bitter scorn out of his tone. The man _still_ insisted on being called that? “I bring urgent tidings from the Lord Dragon.” He raised the sealed letter he was carrying for good measure. His other hand never left the pommel of his sword. Coming back to the Tower after a month of absence felt like picking his way through enemy territory. He hadn’t recognised half of the men he’d met along the short way from the main gate to the palace.

Mishraile appeared briefly hesitant, obviously wondering whether the letter was worth facing Taim’s anger. He quickly came to a decision, however. “Very well,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I will take you upstairs.”

“That’s not necessary. I know the way.” He tried to pass to the man’s right, but Mishraile stepped in front of him, blue eyes blazing.

“I will _not_ take orders from you, Ablar,” the Asha’man said, a threatening edge to his voice.

Ablar, was it now? Mishraile had always called him Logain before – most people did, except for Taim, of course. Had it really come to this? Was he not even trusted to be alone in Taim’s monstrosity of a palace? He considered pushing his way through regardless, but he knew it would be a bad idea. He wasn’t here to cause trouble; he had a mission. With an immense effort and great restraint, he nodded to Mishraile, indicating that he should lead the way. Mishraile smirked smugly and turned his back on him to open the door.

The spiral staircase seemed endless. Logain felt a bit winded when they finally reached the top. Any enemy who didn’t possess the ability to open a gateway straight inside Taim’s study would be weakened just by taking the stairs.

Mishraile came to a halt at the door. Logain could sense his reluctance in the way his shoulders tensed. Before he could knock, however, there came the sound of raised voices inside the room. Logain couldn’t make out what they were saying, but one belonged to Taim, and the other was clearly a woman’s.

Mishraile had frozen mid-motion, his right hand halfway to the door. Did he know who the woman was? Logain didn’t enquire, but he did clear his throat. Whoever was in there, Logain had urgent matters to attend to.

Finally, Mishraile knocked thrice, in rapid succession. Silence fell inside the study.

The silence stretched, so long that Logain, losing patience, knocked again. Mishraile threw him a venomous look.

“Come in,” Taim called out a second later. Mishraile opened the door and almost slammed it in Logain’s face as he stepped inside on his own. Logain almost barged in after him, but once again, he suppressed the urge. _Poise and serenity_ , he repeated to himself, eyes closed. That was something he’d heard Gabrelle mutter to herself at times, notably when she seemed about to berate him.

At long last the door reopened, revealing Mishraile. He certainly didn’t look smug now. His face was ashen. Logain almost felt bad for him. Without a word, he gestured for Logain to get in. This time the Asha’man remained in the corridor, standing guard.

The first thing Logain noticed as he walked into Taim’s study was the smell. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it was something Logain had never encountered before, some exotic spice, perhaps. Had Taim picked out a new perfume? The man was incredibly vain, but this seemed a bit much, even for him. Maybe the scent belonged to the mystery woman, of whom there was no trace. So, a channeler. An Aes Sedai? It seemed unlikely, given Taim’s history with the White Tower, but who else would know how to Travel? Unless Taim had opened the gateway for her, of course. Logain stored the information for later consideration.

Taim stood at the window, his back to Logain. He was wearing a coat Logain had never seen before – how many coats did the bloody man own? This one, like the others, had dragons winding up his forearms, but they were crimson instead of the usual blue.

Logain remained standing. It wouldn’t do to sit when Taim was on his feet. “Orders from the Dragon,” he announced brusquely. He had no time to waste on pleasantries, especially with Taim. He shoved the letter in front of Taim’s hooked nose, though the man’s gaze seemed fixated on the courtyard below. Logain spotted a group of children chasing a dog and a few Soldiers running in different directions, carrying out their daily chores; there was nothing that could possibly warrant Taim's unwavering attention.

Evidently, the M'Hael didn’t take the missive right away. “Ablar,” he said instead, finally acknowledging Logain's existence. “Back so soon?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Logain let his arm fall back at his side, the letter still in his hand. He took a deep, calming breath. Then he said something utterly stupid anyway. “Missed me?” he asked with a smirk.

Taim glanced at him, the smile wiped off his face in a flash. “I wouldn’t say that.” He pointed his chin in the direction of the letter. “What’s this?”

Logain would have rather strangled him with his bare hands, but instead forced himself to repeat what he’d already said. “Orders from al’Thor.” He handed it over once again.

Logain had made sure to carefully reseal the Dragon’s missive after reading it, but Taim still appeared suspicious as he took the letter. He embraced the Source.

Reflexively, so did Logain.

Taim chuckled softly. “Peace, Ablar. I’m just checking the integrity of the seal.” His dark, almost-black eyes glinted as he found Logain’s brown ones. He released _saidin_. “Interesting read, I hope?”

Logain’s cheeks reddened, but he didn’t bother to deny it.

“You have much to learn yet, Ablar,” Taim declared. “You really ought to consider attending my private lessons with your fellow Asha’man.”

Logain would never consider these men his ‘fellows’, and he certainly wouldn’t give Taim the satisfaction of becoming his pupil. Besides, he knew more than the other man assumed. Logain was simply smart enough not to reveal the extent of his knowledge to a man he knew to be an enemy.

“I’ll pass,” he told Taim. “But thanks for the offer.”

Taim shrugged indifferently. “Your loss.” He broke the seal carelessly and smoothed the paper.

Logain had expected the man to spontaneously burst into flames at the missive’s contents, and he was only mildly disappointed. Taim grimaced, his face darkening, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the letter tighter and tighter, crumpling the paper. “He cannot expect me to simply relinquish _half_ my men!” he growled.

He was exaggerating, but only slightly. Al’Thor had demanded that at least a few hundred men be dispatched to Illian and Arad Doman.

“He doesn’t even say _why_!” Taim complained. He turned to Logain, brandishing the paper as though it were a weapon. Logain, of course, knew why, but if al’Thor had chosen not to mention it in the letter, he wasn’t about to enlighten Taim. It seemed that the Dragon had taken Logain’s advice not to trust Taim after all. “How do I know al’Thor really wrote this?” he snarled. “For all I know, this is a pathetic attempt on your part to steal my men.”

Logain stared at him in shock. He had not seen _that_ coming. The man was paranoid. Light, was he going mad? That was all they needed, really: one of the most powerful male channelers alive going mad just before the Last Battle.

It didn’t make sense, though. The taint was gone. Nobody should be going mad.

What to do? How to convince him? He didn’t want to antagonise Taim – not until he had al’Thor’s full support, anyway. Besides, he needed to leave the Tower with the men he’d promised the Dragon.

“Why would I bother tampering with the seal if I’d written the thing myself?” he pointed out reasonably.

“Because you _knew_ I would accuse you of doing just that,” Taim countered. “You were trying to make it look more realistic.”

Blood and _flaming_ ashes! He couldn’t be serious. “Taim, please.” He winced at the word. “I can tell you where to find al’Thor, if you truly need confirmation. Go to him. Ask him. You’ll only bother him, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

Taim made no reply. His eyes glittered so much with anger, they could have thrown sparks.

Logain decided to change the subject, hoping to distract the man. Without thinking, he asked exactly the worst possible question. “Did you hear anything from Neya?”

That had been one of Logain’s first concerns when he’d finally reached the Dragon. Had he, or had he not, recalled Neya from the Black Tower?

He had not. He had not heard from her in months, not since Dumai’s Wells, he claimed. Logain hadn’t hesitated to share the lies Taim had been spreading, but it had been vain. Either al’Thor didn’t care, or he couldn’t afford to waste time and resources searching for Neya and dealing with Taim. The latter option seemed more likely; al’Thor was a good man, but he had a lot on his plate.

Of course, the topic would only aggravate the present situation. This was not the time to confront Taim about it. Nothing good would come out of it.

Taim looked like he was having a stroke. He suddenly seemed to be engulfed by a pulsing aura of darkness, though he wasn’t channeling. “Get out of here,” he said through gritted teeth. “Take the men you need and leave. Dedicated and Soldiers only. Go!” He embraced _saidin_ again, but Logain didn’t wait around to find out what he would do with it.

* * *

As usual, it fell to Atal to clean up the mess in Taim’s study – servants were only allowed to clean up once a week, under heavy surveillance.

His fits of rage were getting worse. He’d overturned his desk and ransacked the bookshelves. There was crystal powder everywhere – another set of glasses gone to waste.

What had Ablar said or done? It had briefly crossed Atal’s mind to eavesdrop, but he’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk of getting caught. Whatever had happened, Ablar had exited the room in a hurry, barely sparing Atal a glance. Half an hour later, he’d departed with almost half of the battle-ready Dedicated and Soldiers. All of them were known followers of Ablar, and the small army included all the men who’d bonded an Aes Sedai.

Atal placed the last book back on the shelf. There was a strange smell in the room, as if someone had burned a peculiar sort of incense. Perfume? Taim didn’t wear any, and Atal would have said that this one belonged to a woman. The one who’d been here earlier, arguing with the M’Hael? Atal hadn’t seen her; she must have Travelled right inside the room. An Aes Sedai? He doubted that Taim would meet with one of the witches without alerting his guards. And if one of them had simply materialised in the room, without warning, Taim wouldn’t have bothered arguing with her. He would have disintegrated her on the spot.

Unless she was one of the Forsaken, of course.

Atal shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to know that the Forsaken were really in charge of the Black Tower, and another to think that one of them had been _right there_ , with only a door separating her from Atal. He wondered which one it had been. Moghedien? Graendal? Or even Lanfear herself?

Light preserve him. His mother used to scare him with stories of Lanfear coming for him in the night, if he didn’t behave.

Sometimes he wished he could leave the Tower. He wished he could take Trygg and the girls and get the hell away from this place. But where would they go? Where would they be safe, with the Last Battle approaching?

Besides, he had sworn an oath to Taim. He would stand at his side and protect him, come what may, to the bitter end.

* * *

Mazrim was brooding in his favourite chair, his mood darkening as the sunlight outside waned.

Semirhage was the last person he’d expected to find in his study when he’d awakened that morning. He didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, reading an old book in Mazrim’s desk chair.

Of course he’d had no idea who she was, at first, but he had to assume she was one of the Forsaken. Who else would have the nerve to come here without permission, without backup? Even a Black Ajah sister would know better than to attempt sneaking up on him like that. If Mazrim hadn’t been so groggy from sleep, he would have pulverised her where she sat.

Well, he would have, if Semirhage hadn’t shielded him while he slept. He hadn’t even noticed. He really ought to drink less wine.

She’d glanced up from her book with an arched eyebrow, as if she were judging him for sleeping so late, though it was just past dawn. Why in the Pit of Doom hadn’t she woken him? It was… creepy, to think she might have been watching him sleep.

“Which one are you?” he’d muttered angrily, extracting himself from his seat. This was _not_ the most appropriate way to greet one of the Forsaken, but she hadn’t exactly set the bar for civility very high.

She had closed the book with care and stood gracefully, taking a few steps toward Mazrim. She was almost as tall as he was. Her skin was charcoal-dark, and she was quite beautiful. Her eyes gave him the impression that she was stern, but highly intelligent. Her perfume permeated the room, a strong, sharp, exotic scent. He had a feeling that she might be...

“I,” she said in a deep, melodic voice, “am Semirhage.” She remained silent for a moment after this dramatic introduction, as though she were expecting him to kneel or bow or acknowledge her infamous name in a more suitable manner than:

“What in the Pit of Doom do _you_ want?” As if he didn’t receive enough visits from her male associates. They couldn’t possibly all want to use him for their own purposes, could they? He could hardly split himself in three.

Semirhage had scowled then, a dangerous glint in her dark eyes, and that had shut him up. She was, after all, known for her outstanding ability to deal pain. Mazrim wasn’t eager to become one of her test subjects.

She needed male channelers to be dispatched to Seanchan immediately, she told him crisply. Of course, she didn’t say _why_ she needed them.

“Get in line,” he’d snorted. “Moridin needs Dreadlords. Demandred needs Dreadlords. I only have so many Shadow-sworn men, Your Ladyship.” He never called Moridin or Demandred anything so fancy, but he was reluctant to antagonise Semirhage openly, especially with him being shielded. He wasn’t lying, however. Moridin often ‘borrowed’ his Asha’man, and even Demandred made use of them on occasion. Didn’t they have their own minions, for peace’s sake?

Besides, Mazrim couldn’t send too many men away at the same time. That would look suspicious, and he was trying to remain as discreet as possible, given the circumstances.

He knew it was a dangerous move, but he’d refused Semirhage. He’d told her to take the matter to Moridin – Mazrim had, by then, figured out that the boyish-looking Forsaken was in charge, for some reason.

She’d argued, but he’d argued right back. What could she do, anyway? Mazrim couldn’t be replaced; Moridin would be righteously pissed off with Semirhage if she blasted him to pieces.

Someone had knocked on the door then. Mazrim had fallen silent at once, index raised to his lips to shush the Forsaken. She’d glared at him, but she wasn’t stupid. Without another word, she’d vanished through a gateway. Mazrim was relieved to feel the shield dissolve as the gateway closed behind Semirhage.

Knowing that Ablar was back at the Tower had been irritating enough, but the fact that al’Thor wanted to take away half his men only made things worse. He didn’t even have the decency to explain the purpose of such a preposterous demand!

Or did he no longer trust Mazrim? How much had Ablar told him? For that matter, how much did Ablar know, or thought he knew? Ablar had mentioned Neya. If he’d asked al’Thor where she was, where he’d sent her… But if he had, the Dragon would have confronted Mazrim about it, surely. And Mazrim would have made something up. He had a lie at the ready. He’d told everyone that Neya had been recalled because it was too painful to share the awful truth: Neya had abandoned them. She and Mazrim had had a terrible argument, and she’d decided to leave. It likely wouldn’t fool his men, but he doubted al’Thor would dig any further. The Dragon didn’t know about the girls – Neya would never have abandoned _them_.

Mazrim had abandoned them. He’d abandoned Neya to her fate. He’d abandoned his mother, a long time ago; he had left her alone to die. He’d forsaken his own soul. He was losing his mind.

He didn’t have anything left, but perhaps that was a good thing. If he had nothing to lose, then he had nothing to fear.


	52. Team Evil

Neya went over the plan in her head for the hundredth time. She didn’t like it, not one bit, despite Bao's assurance that everything would go as planned. He didn’t realise what he was asking her to do, did he? He was too confident in her abilities. What if she failed? The whole bloody plan depended on her, or near enough.

In truth, failure was not her main source of concern. What really bothered her was what it meant, that she was part of the plan at all. Was she a Darkfriend now? She didn’t think of herself as one, but would others see it that way? She remembered planning the previous evening, far into the night, with Bao and Shendla. It had felt like... being part of a team.

Team Evil.

Thus far she'd never aided the Shadow willingly, not really. She’d saved Elan's life twice, but she’d done it mainly to save herself. She had revealed nothing to Lanfear, even under torture. As for Mazrim... Well, she had no idea he was a Darkfriend at the time. Despite Jasin's warning, the thought had honestly never crossed her mind. She’d been convinced that she was helping Rand. But Jasin had been right. It made perfect sense, in hindsight. What the Forsaken could do if the entire Black Tower served the Shadow... The very thought filled her with dread, all the more so because it would involve Turning. She couldn’t picture Mazrim doing something so horrible, but what if they left him no choice? She could only hope he wouldn’t do it for her sake. If Demandred had threatened to kill Neya if Mazrim didn’t comply, then he should just let her die. She couldn’t cope with the guilt – and neither would Mazrim, she was certain.

It didn’t help that she couldn’t tell how Mazrim was feeling. She wondered how he interpreted her current emotions – provided that he could feel them at all. If he truly was an unwilling Darkfriend, as she believed, why was he shutting her out? Why not  _at least_  let her know that he was well? She couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t sever the bond altogether. Sometimes she wished he would. At least she wouldn’t worry about him all the bloody time.

She dispelled Mazrim from her mind. She had to stay focused on the task at hand.

Bao and Shendla had explained the plan in meticulous details. It was all very clear and practical, and it left no room for improvisation, but Neya was increasingly nervous as they approached the large gilded doors. So many things could go wrong, and yet Bao radiated confidence. It was just the two of them. Shendla had been sent back to camp after they had reviewed the plan one last time.

Their footsteps echoed in the vast halls of the Glorious Temple of Wisdom, the palace from where the Ayyad ruled Shara, as they always had. They had a knack for naming buildings, the Sharans did.

Bao and Neya were going to attend – or rather, disrupt in the most disconcerting fashion – the monthly meeting that gathered the most preeminent Ayyad of the land. There were seven of them, although the meeting was customarily attended by all Ayyad present in the city at the time. Each of these seven women were leaders in their own right, overseeing a specific field, like the economy or matters of law and order. At their head stood Galbrait, the Wisest and Foremost. The fact that there were seven leaders, dominated by a single figure of authority, reminded Neya of the White Tower, which placed the Amyrlin Seat above the seven Ajahs, each with its specific mission and purpose. She vaguely wondered who had copied whom, or if this was just a coincidence.

Bao had received no invitation to this meeting. In fact, men were not allowed inside the Temple, least of all men who could channel. But Bao was the Wyld – or would be, when he accomplished the remaining prophecies – and nobody halted them. Most likely, nobody dared. Bao looked quite dashing in his green velvet coat, but he also looked very daunting. As usual.

Bao opened the doors without bothering to knock.

There were at least thirty women present inside the lavish reception room. Galbrait herself, tall and imposing, was seated regally on the dais in an ornate throne that appeared to be made of ivory. Just below her, seven women sat in elegantly carved chairs of contrasting mahogany. Each of them wore an opulent dress of a different colour. Galbrait's was white and gold. The other, lesser Ayyad, all dressed in black, were placed on simple chairs that faced their leaders. They all turned to stare at the intruders with a puzzled look on their faces.

The seven glared at the newcomers with open outrage. Galbrait stood up angrily and stalked toward Bao as he made his way to her. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked imperiously. She spoke in the crisp Sharan dialect that was used by the nobility and therefore mainly employed in the Capital. Thankfully, it wasn't too different from the dialect the rest of the population used, so Neya could understand her. "This is unacceptable! You have no place here, Bao. You cannot–"

He didn't let her finish. Demandred was not a man to allow even a bit of theatrical drama to come between him and his objective. Hands raised, he weaved something that caused the Wisest and Foremost to stumble and fall heavily on the smooth marble floor. She moaned in agony. The others stood stock still, gaping at them in stupor. Before anyone could react, Bao sent another weave in Galbrait's direction. The woman's back arched under the sudden pain and she let out a strident howl. "You leave me no other choice, Galbrait. I have no more time for your political manoeuvres and mind games. If you will not bend, I will bend you." The assembly watched in horrified silence as Bao cut off the woman's arm with a sword of fire summoned with invisible  _saidin_. Galbrait's shriek broke off abruptly as she stared at the stump and the blood that was spilling on the immaculate marble floor. "Submit to me now, and I will be merciful,” Bao went on. Judging by his tone, he could have been discussing the weather. “I will make you whole again. You may even retain your position. Refuse, and I will cut through every single woman in this room, after I am done with you."

Neya couldn't understand why none of the other women moved. Obviously, their day had taken an unexpected turn, and it was a rather ghastly sight, but why weren't they trying to fight back, to help Galbrait? They simply stood there, waiting for events to unfold. They might have overthrown Bao and Neya, had they tried, although Bao had a small  _angreal_ and was already linked to her. Didn't they know how to form a circle? Or perhaps they weren't supposed to do anything without Galbrait's permission, but that would be ridiculous: surely circumstances were dire enough to bypass that particular condition. In any case, against Neya's expectations, all was thus far unfolding exactly as Shendla had predicted. She’d been the real mastermind behind this plan. Bao hadn’t even bothered to make it look like it had been his idea; he’d let Shendla take control of the planning session, only chiming in once in a while, mainly to ask questions, to make certain they’d covered everything.

_Focus, burn you!_ Neya scolded herself. If Galbrait didn't react soon, she would be beyond saving. At last – and not a second too soon – the Ayyad raised her eyes to meet Bao's and nodded faintly. That was Neya’s cue.

Bao released her from the circle. She had to act quickly now. Crouching beside the older woman - much older indeed; Mintel claimed that Galbrait was already in charge of the Ayyad when he was a boy - Neya picked up the severed arm and held it to Galbrait’s shoulder. She had done this before. Provided with a clean cut, she should be able to knit the arm back together with the shoulder. It took a moment, but she managed. Barely. It had been a close shave, just as she'd feared. She Healed the woman’s other injuries while she was at it – internal haemorrhage due to the initial weaves of pure pain, bruises from her fall, not to mention the sudden blood loss.

When Neya was done, Galbrait stared at her arm as if she'd never seen it before, slowly flexing her hand, carefully moving her shoulder around in its socket. She looked up at Neya in stupefaction, and Bao picked that moment to unclasp her necklace, the  _ter'angreal_  he had given Neya on her very first day. As instructed, Neya drew on _saidar_ and held as much of the Power as she safely could. Galbrait let out a weak whimper and bowed her head dejectedly. As one, the other women knelt down, facing her and Bao. Neya wasn't sure to whom they were kneeling.

At first she hadn’t grasped that part of the plan. Galbrait was quite powerful, almost as strong as Egwene, and the other leaders were not far behind. But Shendla had explained it to her: the most powerful Ayyad was in charge. Nothing else mattered but her strength in  _saidar._  Even the fact that Neya was an  _ulikar_ , not an Ayyad at all, appeared to be overlooked, though that was most likely due to the Ayyad’s collective shock – something else Shendla and Bao had counted on.

"You will retain your positions, all of you," Bao told the assembled Ayyad, interrupting Neya's train of thoughts. "Nothing will change, but for the fact that you are now under  _my_  authority. I declare myself King of Shara, and I expect your full endorsement and unconditional loyalty," Bao went on quietly, his face and voice devoid of emotion as he surveyed the kneeling women. Nobody spoke, and he must have taken that as their assent. Without another word, he turned to leave. Neya hurried after him, feeling bewildered.

* * *

Bao opened a gateway just outside the Ayyad’s reception room and took them back to his own bedchamber, on the other side of the city. He had taken up residence in the former palace of the Sh'botay, although not in the man’s room. Neya wasn't sure what the building was called, but it probably had an exaggeratedly snobbish sound to it. It was the place where she had first arrived, just over two months ago. She had, however, never seen it in its entirety.

It was about the size of Neya’s room when she was in Cairhien, the one she’d shared with Jasin so briefly. The furniture was refined and the few colourful paintings hanging on the walls were tasteful. There was an immense canopy bed against the wall opposite the balcony and a sort of door that seemed made out of paper led to what Neya assumed had to be a private bathroom. She yearned for a long, warm bath, but she knew better than to ask. Come to think of it, it was odd that Bao hadn't brought her back to the Ayyad encampment right away, so they could debrief with Shendla. She turned to face him and opened her mouth to enquire, but he didn't leave her a chance to speak.

Pushing her against the wall, Bao kissed her, hard on the mouth, and Neya was too stunned to push him away. He proceeded to tear her blouse apart. Neya stared at him in horror for half a second before trying to disentangle herself from him. It wouldn't do; he was much too strong. She acted without thinking. Her fist connected with his nose with a resounding crack and blood spurted out of his nostrils. She braced herself, half-expecting him to strike her back, but he barely flinched. He had already discarded his coat and was taking his shirt off, his breath coming out rapidly.  _What in the Pit of–_

If Neya could have slapped herself, she would have. She could channel, for crying out loud! Embracing  _saidar_ , she weaved what she hoped would produce a blast of Air. It didn’t impact Bao as much as she’d expected; he stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Light, defensive weaves were not her forte. Healing was, but she couldn’t see how that would help her now.

And then she realised that it might, in fact, help her. She could modify the weaves to produce the reverse effect – instead of Healing, she could cause pain. Bao was advancing on her again, utterly undeterred. Without really thinking about what she was doing, Neya weaved a combination of Air, Spirit and Water, and added a thread of Fire to the mix.

Unless she was seriously mistaken, the weave should have left him writhing in pain. Instead, Bao appeared, if anything, even more eager. He was close enough now that droplets of blood fell from his nose on what was left of Neya’s blouse.

“Do that again,” he whispered in her ear, almost pleadingly. He kissed her neck, and Neya shuddered – not in horror but in excitement, she realised.

He  _wanted_  her to hurt him? Was that… was that a thing? She was confused, but he was kissing her again. Her defences began to crumble.

Bao released her abruptly, but only to lift her in his arms. Neya was so surprised that she let out an involuntary gasp. Light, he was  _strong_. He let her fall on the bed and threw himself on top of her. His pupils were dilated. He looked almost… hungry. And beautiful, with his dark hair in disarray, his cheeks coloured with arousal…

If she did this, there would be no going back. If there was any doubt as to whether she should be considered a Darkfriend, after all the help she’d already provided, it would dissipate the moment she gave in to him.

_I could kill him now, while he’s distracted,_ Neya thought _. I could stop his heart with a single weave._   _It would be the easiest thing in the world._ Bao was obviously out of his mind. He might not even fight her back – he wouldn’t have a chance to even try, if she worked quickly enough.

The thought crossed her mind but found no anchor there. She knew she couldn't kill someone in cold blood. Not even to save the world.

The moment passed. Bao pressed his mouth to hers again, and this time she kissed him back.

* * *

Mazrim startled awake from his wine-induced stupor. Something was wrong.

He looked around the room and noted that he’d dropped his glass as he’d drifted off to sleep. Thankfully, it had landed on the carpet instead of shattering on the hardwood floor. Mazrim was apparently alone - Semirhage was nowhere in sight - but he felt uneasy, shocked, uncomfortable.

It wasn’t him, he realised abruptly. It was coming through the bond. Neya was in trouble.

Or was she? Just as he started to focus on her emotions, they... shifted.

Was that... arousal?

Blood and ashes! What in the Pit of Doom was happening? She couldn’t possibly...

But apparently she could, judging from what he was feeling from her. He couldn’t stand it a second longer. He masked the bond from Neya’s end, but allowed his own emotions to flow freely, for a few seconds. At least she would know how he felt, provided that she still cared.

It seemed that she’d moved on. Perhaps he should, too. Now would certainly be a good time to sever the bond.

For the hundredth time, he almost did it. Almost. It was the tiny prick of guilt he received in response that stopped him. If he’d felt it, with the distance and with the bond veiled on her end… He allowed Neya’s emotions to reach him, just for a moment. She felt terrible. She sent love and worry and shame.

She’d felt him, yes, and she felt bad about whatever she was doing, but she went on with her business regardless. Soon, it appeared, she dismissed Mazrim from her mind entirely.

Mazrim cut the connection, masking both ends of the bond... for now. He still had to know that she was alright. Perhaps she’d found a protector, someone to look after her; he could hardly blame her for that. But she had to know that Mazrim would feel it all through the bond. Had she momentarily forgotten about him? Or had she assumed that he’d already severed their connection because he’d been masking his emotions from her? That was the best he could hope for, but it didn’t change the fact that she was currently in another man’s arms – at least he assumed it was a man.

Neya was in bed with someone else. And there was nothing Mazrim could do about it.

The glass that had resisted its earlier fall exploded on the carpet.

That was it. He was done. Done resisting Moridin, done trying to fight his own madness, his own darkness. Done worrying and being afraid, done feeling guilty about matters that were beyond his control. The end was upon them, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He should embrace it instead.

The Turning phase would begin the next day. No more excuses.


	53. These violent delights

Bao lay in the semi-darkness, eyes closed. He was not asleep; he rarely slept.

He felt unusually content.

What happened earlier had been Shendla's idea – to an extent. When Bao first arrived in Shara, Shendla had been the second person to attach herself to him. Mintel had adopted him, as the old man called it, but that was different. Shendla was utterly devoted to him. Bao had taken to her right away. She was cunning, practical and intelligent, and she possessed the knowledge to help him find what he had come seeking in this land. He knew now where the second part of the artefact rested; he had simply needed to take care of the Ayyad situation before departing. In a few weeks, _D'jedt_ would be his.

Shendla and he had been lovers for a time, but it had not lasted. They were not… compatible. She could not match his lust, although she had tried. They had abandoned the idea by joint agreement. Shendla had sworn to follow him nonetheless, as he had expected, and she held on to her word. She wanted to see him fulfil his destiny and she would do whatever she must to see it done.

Bao did not believe in their prophecies, evidently, although he had to admit that the events that took place during his first months in Shara were oddly coincidental. First, there was the Revolt, which he had unwittingly started and somehow ended up leading. Then, by freeing the slaves and gaining their loyalty, he had united the whole nation under him, although the Ayyad had not been particularly forthcoming about it. He had known even then that it would take drastic measures to bind them to his will.

All things considered, maybe he was indeed their Wyld. It would be fitting: he was the Dragon Slayer, and what better name to take for himself, he who would claim the life of Lews Therin Telamon, or Rand al'Thor, whichever he chose to call himself? In any event, it mattered little whether he truly was the Wyld or not. He would see the Dragon dead, once and for all. Nothing else mattered.

Shendla had made it clear that he needed someone else to accomplish his destiny. She hadn't been able to tell him who, not at first. A young woman of this Age, she’d said. A Westerner, a Healer, a powerful channeler. It had taken a while to decipher that riddle, but Taim had solved the puzzle for him when he had unwillingly drawn Bao's attention to his new conquest: Neya fit the description perfectly.

Bao was not sure what Shendla's special ability was. She was not a channeler, and it was therefore unlikely that she was a Dreamer or that she had the Foretelling. And yet this dying world was seeing the return of old Talents and new ones, like that of al'Thor's woman, Farshaw. Maybe Shendla's ability was similar; they had never really discussed it. In any case, she had been positive when she saw Neya: she was the one Bao had to keep close at hand.

Then Shendla had told him that he needed to be _closer_ to her. That had been just a few days ago; it was in fact what had triggered the whole plan to begin with. He had been puzzled at first, but Shendla assured him that it was necessary, and that the girl fancied him besides. He was used to women feeling that way toward him, but in this case, it came as a surprise. Neya was very young, for one thing, and they were as different as two people could be – or so he thought. They should not have been compatible, no more than Shendla and he had been.

And yet here they were.

She had fought him at first, yes, but not for long. She had even appeared to enjoy it. He should have been gentler, he knew, at least in the beginning, but once they had left the Ayyad behind, once it was clear that he had succeeded, at long last, all he had wanted to do was to tear Neya's clothes off and get her into bed. It was not just about the sex; he had other women at his disposal. There was something different about Neya, something that set her apart, as if she were not entirely human, or maybe _beyond_ human. He could not quite put his finger on it.

* * *

Neya woke up with the sun. For a moment, she couldn't remember why she was lying on such a soft, comfortable mattress. Then she realised Bao was asleep beside her.

At least she thought he was asleep. She rolled on her side and gingerly put a hand on his abdomen. He didn't react. He was incredibly muscular, she thought as she moved her hand over the tattoos and scars that riddled his chest. She wondered why he hadn't had the latter removed; with proper Healing, it would be a matter of seconds to make them vanish. Maybe he didn't trust anyone of this Age to Heal him. She was still idly tracing the marks when Bao spoke. "What are you doing?" he murmured with a distinctive twang. Light, had she really broken his nose?

"Um, nothing," Neya said, hastily removing her hand. She wasn't sure where they stood, after what had happened that night. It had been the strangest experience. She had been afraid that he was going to hurt her, but that wasn't what he was after, although she would likely bruise a little – he was rough, but in a way she rather enjoyed. She had been reluctant at first, unwilling to cause pain. It stood against everything she believed in. It was surprising how similar the weaves she used to inflict pain were to the ones she employed to Heal. It was also strangely exhilarating.

Bao sat up abruptly. "We should take a bath," he announced matter-of-factly. He got out of the bed, stark naked, and headed for the bathroom. Neya stared after him with a small frown. _We?_

With a shrug, she hauled herself almost reluctantly out of the spongy bed and followed him. He was already reclining in the bath, eyes closed. She hesitated for a moment, unsure if he'd meant that she was supposed to join him. "Get in," he told her without opening his eyes. Neya stepped in carefully and settled against him. The water was scalding, just as she liked it. Bao was more comfortable than she would have thought.

They lay there for a long time in silence. Neya could see old laceration scars on his arms. She didn’t think she’d left any visible mark on him. Who had left these? Were they remnants of his time as a slave? "Do you want me to Heal you?" she asked timidly. He didn't answer right away. Was he asleep again? Or was he meditating, like Mintel sometimes did?

"Yes, please," he said eventually.

It never failed to amuse her how polite and formal he was, even more so after last night. "Shall I remove all the scars?"

"Leave only the marks on my hands," he told her.

"Why? What do they mean?" She’d assumed they were slave tattoos, but they looked like nothing she had seen on the Freed or the Ayyad. And, on closer inspection, it appeared that they’d been branded into his skin.

"They mark me as he who will fulfil the Prophecies."

The Prophecies of the Wyld. Neya had only realised what _wyld_ meant a few days ago. It wasn’t a title, not exactly. _Wy-eld_ , in _isleh_ , translated to Slayer of the Dragon. She didn’t like the sound of that.

Neya waited for more explanation, but nothing came, so she put a hand on Bao’s arm and Delved him. _Blood and ashes!_ She had been much more heavy-handed than she’d assumed. And he had never said anything, never cried out in pain. She removed her hand a short time later. He didn't say anything for a moment. "I believe you forgot something," he said in a heavily nasal voice.

"I didn't forget,” she replied smugly. “You deserve that one." He snorted softly. That was the closest thing to a laugh that she’d ever heard from him.

"Should I Heal you as well?" he asked quietly. Neya nodded; she didn't hurt, but the bruises stood out against the paleness of her skin. He placed a hand on her stomach and she saw the bruises on her arms fade then disappear. He didn't remove his hand right away. "You are with child."

He said it so casually that Neya’s mind didn't register the words at first. "What?" she blurted out after a moment. "How is that even _possible_? We just–"

"Evidently, it is not my doing. I do not think any of the Chosen have the ability to conceive, in any case," he went on thoughtfully. "I cannot say how far along you are. Delving was never my specialty."

How could he be so bloody impassive? _Blood and flaming ashes!_

She’d been so sure that the Finn had misled her, cheated her. It had been her one true request, when she'd visited Sindhol.

Nynaeve had explained to her, maybe a year before Elan appeared in her life, that she could never bear children. Neya had just turned seventeen and, at the time, it didn't seem like such a tragedy. She hadn't understood then the chagrined look on the Wisdom's face, or Natti's tears when she told her later. She hadn't even tried to understand Nynaeve's technical details on what was wrong with her. All she knew was that she had never bled in her life and never would. At the time it had seemed like a good thing.

She’d changed her mind after Elan died, although she couldn't say why, exactly. She reflected upon it a lot in the time she was locked up in Lanfear's dungeon: how sad it was that her family line would perish when she did – at the time, her death had seemed imminent. She had no other blood kin; she was the last al'Kane in the Two Rivers. When Mat told her about the _ter'angreal_ and the Eelfinn's abilities, and knowing that the doorway would soon be taken to the White Tower, it had been all Neya could think of. She felt that she had to at least try. But she’d been persuaded that the bloody Foxes had deceived her, as they had Mat, especially considering how things had turned out.

And now this. It could hardly have happened at a worst time. The Last Battle loomed ahead like an ominous storm cloud and she was stuck in a faraway land with one of the Forsaken.

And Mazrim… Light, Mazrim. Last night – with the worst possible timing – the bond had suddenly become alive with his emotions. He was furious. He felt betrayed. Those had been the only two emotions she was able to clearly pick out from the raging pandemonium that was Mazrim’s mind.

She’d felt angry at first. What right did he have to intrude on her like this, to _feel_ like this, when he hadn’t deigned to give sign of life for over two bloody months?

Then she’d realised how horrible this must be for him, and embarrassment and guilt had quickly taken over her anger. She still cared deeply for him, and she was worried out of her mind whenever she thought of the Black Tower – worried about everyone who lived there, really. Mazrim hadn’t returned her feelings, however, or if he had, she couldn’t tell them apart from the rest. She hadn’t told Bao to stop – on the contrary, she remembered with a blush, she’d urged him on.

In any case, the way things were going, it seemed unlikely that she would ever see Mazrim again. This baby would be her responsibility, and hers alone.

Bao’s voice recalled her out of her reverie. "You really did not know," Bao said softly. She’d had no way of knowing, to be fair. Whatever the Finn had done, she still didn’t bleed – which was what had led to believe she’d been tricked.

Neya could only shake her head in dismay. Bao’s hand hadn't moved. "I will ask one of the midwives to examine you," he said.

This was too troubling, and talking about it with Bao felt distinctively awkward. She would need some time alone to process the news. In the meantime, she decided to change to subject. "Why did you declare yourself king? Couldn't you become the new Sh'botay?"

"So the Ayyad would have a good reason to attempt to remove me, seven years from now? I do not think so."

"You're the Wyld. They might have made an exception for you."

"They do not entirely believe that I am the Wyld and, in any case, I am not the Wyld _yet_ ," he told her. "Soon, but not quite yet," he murmured. There was a firm knock on the door. "That will be Shendla." Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bao removed his hand from her belly.

With a small sigh, Neya disentangled herself from him and got out of the bath. As she was drying herself with a weave of Air, it suddenly appeared vital to her to know what his relationship with Shendla entailed, exactly. She looked up at Bao as he followed her out of the bath and opened her mouth to ask, but before she had a chance, the door opened. Neya glared at Shendla and hurriedly scrambled into her clothes. The older woman arched an eyebrow in her direction with a carefully guarded expression on her face before shifting slightly to eye Bao.

Neya had never thought of herself as a particularly jealous person, but Bao was naked, and the woman was taking it all in as if Neya wasn't even there. She embraced the Source once more, preparing one of the new weaves she'd discovered just a few hours ago, but Bao put a warning hand on her shoulder. She turned to glare at him, but he simply shook his head. A gateway suddenly appeared next to them, leading back to the camp. "Go ahead," he told her. "I will send the midwife, and we will talk later." She wanted to argue, but his face had taken on a stony look that brooked no debate. Sullenly, Neya walked away from him. The gateway winked out of existence as soon as she was through.

There was a lot on which to ponder, her unexpected pregnancy clearly not the least of it, or her tendency to end up in any male Forsaken's bed – what was _wrong_ with her? – but as she made her way back to her tent, Neya caught herself grinning like a ninny.

Mintel would be over the moon when he found out.


	54. I can't decide whether you should live or die

Al’Thor was going mad, or he already was. That was a fact.

The way he’d drawn on the Power, the day of the attack on Lord Algarin’s manor… What would have happened if Logain hadn’t been there? The Dragon, like his namesake, had nearly destroyed himself – and everyone else present. A few more seconds, and a new Dragonmount would have sprouted out of the earth to swallow the whole place and the surrounding area.

Logain shook his head, somewhat dispelling the sense of dread suffusing through his body. If al’Thor went mad before the Last Battle… _Focus, burn you!_ He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not after what had just happened.

Belatedly, it came to him that he’d just faced Semirhage in battle – although there was precious little he’d been able to contribute to the fight. Of course, Semirhage wasn’t the first Forsaken Logain had encountered, but the ‘meeting’ had rattled him. He couldn’t tell how much of the shock and dismay he felt came from Gabrelle and Toveine, and how much was his.

Al’Thor had barely reacted to having his hand destroyed. Even Nynaeve hadn’t been able to Heal _that_.

Neya might have. Logain had seen her reattach a man’s forearm, once. He hadn’t thought much about it then, but if the ability was beyond even Nynaeve, the woman who’d Healed stilling…

Well, it was no use crying over spilled milk, as his governess used to say. But still, al’Thor’s utter lack of emotion was disturbing. Was he still entirely himself? Logain had caught him muttering about Lews Therin – or talking _to_ Lews Therin, Logain couldn’t say for certain. The fact that the Dragon was muttering to himself was, in itself, quite alarming, but if he had imaginary conversations with a dead madman… Given that, Semirhage’s bleak words regarding al’Thor’s incipient madness weren’t encouraging.

There was nothing Logain could do about it, however. He’d done what he could – he’d dispatched Asha’man to Arad Doman and Illian, as commanded, and he’d successfully come to an agreement with the Sea Folk. He’d helped during the battle at Algarin’s manor, copying al’Thor deadly weaves, destroying hordes of Trollocs and Myrddraal.

Days like these, Logain was grateful that he hadn’t turned out to be the Dragon Reborn after all – and even more so that _Taim_ hadn’t. If al’Thor was insane, Taim was something else entirely. At least the Dragon tried to conceal it. Hopefully, the sheepherder would manage to keep the madness at bay a while longer – preferably until he fulfilled the prophecies.

And then Logain felt cowardly for feeling like this. If he _had_ been the Dragon Reborn, at least he would know for sure that the Dragon was sane. Had he declared himself too soon? Perhaps his time simply hadn't come yet. Perhaps it was his destiny to pick up where al'Thor left off after he went mad. Perhaps Logain could yet become the Dragon – provided that no one else rose up to the task.

It was about time Logain returned to the Black Tower.

* * *

Natael paused in front of the Aes Sedai who stood guard outside the tent. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was rather pretty. He gave her his most winning smile. “I’d like to have a word with the prisoner,” he said in a mellow voice. That usually did the trick when applied to pretty serving maids, but he’d never tried it on an Aes Sedai.

Her face remained impassive. She was silent for so long that Natael wondered if she was going to ignore him and pretend he didn’t exist. “The Lord Dragon said that no one was to approach her,” she replied coldly. _Elza Penfell!_ Her name came back to him suddenly.

“The Lord Dragon sent me to question her, Elza Sedai.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true – they had discussed it, without coming to an agreement – but would the woman call his bluff? Natael was an experienced liar, more experienced than any living so-called Aes Sedai – with the possible exception of Cadsuane but, thankfully, the old harpy wasn’t around.

“Why would the Lord Dragon send a _gleeman_ to question one of the Forsaken?” she scoffed, disbelief now plain on her ageless face.

Natael stiffened. “I am al’Thor’s personal court bard, _Aes Sedai_ ,” he corrected her. The nerve of the woman! Who did she think she was? She was just another lackey, and no better than he was.

Penfell rolled her eyes. “Same difference.” They engaged in a staring contest. Natael stood his ground, not blinking once. “Oh, very well,” she gave in eventually. “On your head be it. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that she is dangerous and manipulative.” She arched an eyebrow. Aes Sedai were very good at conveying emotions with their eyebrows, Natael had come to realise. This particular gesture somehow managed to convey irritation, superiority and disdain.

Natael ignored her, eyebrows and all, and stepped inside the tent.

It had been months since he’d seen her last, and only briefly at that, but Semirhage hadn’t changed a bit since she’d been sealed inside the Bore. She stood almost as tall as Natael did. Her raven hair was in disarray, but otherwise you might think she was receiving him in her throne room. She looked as regal as any queen, and behaved like one.

“Nemene,” Natael greeted her politely.

“Worm,” she shot back. Semirhage was usually cold and collected, no matter the circumstances, but Natael had always had a knack for irking her – her and most of the other Chosen, in fact. Semirhage was infamous for her ability to cause pain, but Natael’s special talent was that he could annoy anyone by simply existing.

"Tsk tsk. And you were always my favourite,” he said sarcastically.

“Whereas no one ever appreciated _you_ , Joar.” The sarcasm was apparently lost on her. The blasted woman never had a sense of humour. “You were ever the useless one. I never understood why Ishamael decided to promote you.”

 _Neither did I_ , Natael thought. Elan and he hadn’t seen each other in over a hundred years when Natael decided to join the Shadow. He’d assumed his former lover would laugh in his face and send him away, or blast him where he stood – although in those days, Natael had been cocky enough to believe himself a match for Ishamael. Elan hadn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms, but neither had he dismissed Natael out of hand. He’d stared at him appraisingly, measuring him, weighing up the pros and cons. The pros had somehow prevailed.

“Perhaps your little _fling_ had something to do with it,” Semirhage added judiciously.

Natael laughed bitterly. If she only knew. They’d parted on very bad terms. And it had _not_ been a fling, burn her. Elan had insulted his art, his talent, his very reason to live. Natael would have laughed it off, coming from anyone else, but from Elan, whom he respected and admired above anyone else… From the man he loved, it had cut deeper than he thought possible. Even now, thousands of years later, Natael still resented him for it. Knowing he would have to go to him, to humble himself in front of him, to _obey_ him, had almost been enough to dissuade him to pledge his soul to the Shadow. Almost.

“I like to think that my natural talents and impressive set of skills led to my becoming one of the Chosen,” Natael said with a shrug. “But that’s beside the point. Tell me about your plans, my dear. Where are the others? I'd especially like to know-”

Semirhage laughed almost as rarely as Demandred, but when she did, it was a profoundly disturbing sight. “Why should I tell you anything, vermin? You do not frighten me, Joar. Far from it. If anything, I am mildly amused by your… antics.”

Natael smiled, showing teeth. “You think they’ll come for you, don’t you? That your darling Demandred will rescue you?”

“He’s not my _darling_ ,” she snapped. Oh, he’d struck a chord. Another _fling_ gone sour, it appeared. “But of course they will come. Moridin would never allow-”

“Who’s Moridin?” Natael asked offhandedly. He hadn’t really expected to gather any useful information, but…

Semirhage’s beautiful face went utterly blank.

“Getting under your skin, am I?” Natael gloated. He began to pace the small space of the tent. Who _was_ this Moridin? He’d never heard of him. “ _Death_. Your latest recruit?” he mused. “I suppose you’ll be needing new blood, considering the havoc al’Thor has already wreaked amongst your ranks.” Semirhage remained silent, her mouth set in a thin line. “They didn’t come for me, you know. Why would they come for you? You failed as miserably as I did, Nemene.”

“My name,” she seethed, “is Semirhage! You rat! You vain, pathetic-”

Natael channeled a trickle of _saidin_ to silence her. None of the Asha’man stood nearby; no one would know. “Yes, yes, I get your point, dearest.” He eyed her with affected boredom. “You were about to tell me who that Moridin person is, I believe.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. With a smirk, Natael released her voice from its _saidin_ -weaved prison. “You’ve recuperated your full strength, haven’t you?” she asked out of the blue.

Natael frowned. Curse him for a fool! Of course she would know; he’d failed to consider that. “Does al’Thor know?” Nemene went on sweetly, almost coyly.

Burn the bloody woman! He ought to silence her right then. Permanently. But he couldn’t – if Semirhage died, the Aes Sedai would remember Natael’s visit. He could simply dispose of _them_ , of course, make it look like Nemene had attempted to escape… No. Too risky. If the Aes Sedai died, their Warders would be alerted. Natael may have regained his former strength, but he couldn’t fight off that many Asha’man at once, on his own. They were deadlier than he had initially assumed – a dangerous underestimation on his part.

He could also kill Semirhage and disappear, but that was even riskier. If al’Thor caught him… He shuddered. There was a time when the thought of al’Thor being cross with him had amused him, when he’d have preferred to be caught by the farm boy rather than any of the Chosen. But now… Neither option was pleasant to consider.

“Tell you what,” Natael said through gritted teeth, “I’ll forget all about that Moridin fellow if you swear not to tattle-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Semirhage sneered. “The day I make a deal with you is the day I return to the Light, maggot. Besides, it matters little. Moridin will not keep to the shadows much longer.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me more about him,” Natael prompted her.

She flashed him a dazzling, utterly terrifying smile. “Al’Thor doesn’t know you’re here, does he? You want the knowledge for yourself, to use at your own convenience. To use against al’Thor, should you need it. The boy still doesn’t trust you.” It wasn’t a question, he could tell from her smug undertone. “Do his followers even know who you truly are?” She barely paused before she answered her own question. “Evidently not. They would never allow you anywhere near me if they did – if they even suspected.”

“Farshaw knows,” he muttered. “Cadsuane, too, I believe.”

“That crumbly fossil?” Semirhage said with a snide twitch of her mouth. “You’re scared of her, aren’t you, Joar? They’re all wary of her, even the boy.” She shook her head. “You miserable wretch. What have you become?” She snorted. “Well, to be fair, you weren’t much to begin with.”

“That will be quite enough,” a firm voice announced behind Natael. He nearly jumped out of his skin. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, Master Natael,” Min Farshaw went on when he turned to face her.

“I…I thought she might be more…amenable if I spoke to her,” Natael stammered. Blast! How had the girl sneaked up on them like that?

“Any luck?” Farshaw asked with a mocking half-smile.

“I’m afraid not,” he grumbled.

“Out,” the girl commanded. “Now.” She didn’t spare a glance in Semirhage’s direction as she followed Natael out of the tent. She nodded to the Aes Sedai in passing but waited until they were out of earshot to berate him. “What were you _thinking_? She could have exposed you! Blood and ashes, she still might,” she fumed. “Rand will be furious,” she warned him.

“Will he?” Natael asked crookedly. “Has he recovered his ability to feel, then?”

If Farshaw’s eyes had been shocklances – a weapon of Natael’s Age – he would have been incinerated on the spot. “Don’t you dare,” she said threateningly. He caught a flash of silver from a semi-concealed blade in her sleeve.

“You don’t have to tell him,” Natael offered, somewhat subdued. The girl was deadly with those knives, he knew.

“I’m the only person he still trusts,” Farshaw said crisply. “I have no intention of keeping things from him, let alone lie to him.”

Natael sighed in defeat. “Very well. I’ll tell him myself, then. Perhaps he’ll be more lenient.” He hesitated. “Do you know a man named Moridin?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Never heard of him. Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nemene – that is, Semirhage – mentioned him. I suspect he may be a new Chosen – ah, Forsaken.” He usually had no trouble remembering the correct terms, but the girl had placed her hands on her hips. That was rarely a good sign.

Farshaw considered this. “So you _did_ learn something,” she said eventually. She huffed in exasperation. “Come with me. We’ll talk to Rand together. Perhaps he’ll allow you to interrogate her further if you…” She cut off, staring at his…right ear? Oh. Another viewing, most likely. What could it be this time? A banana peel? A bear in a tutu? It wouldn’t be any stranger than the monkey thing. Sometimes Natael wondered if the girl didn’t come up with random images just to confuse him.

“What do you see?” he asked impatiently when she’d been silent for a whole minute, her brow furrowed.

“I don’t…” She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “A glass filled with blood?”

Well, that didn’t make any sense. As usual. “Thank you for sharing this valuable piece of information,” he sneered. “Blood’s too thick to drink, anyway. I’ll stick to wine.”

Farshaw appeared to consider how she would murder him. “I don’t know why I bother,” she muttered under her breath. “Come. Let’s find Rand. If there’s a new pawn in the game, I’m sure he’ll want to know.”


	55. He's like fire and ice and rage

Min could tell that Rand was still awake.

She had trouble coming to terms with the loss of his hand – unlike Rand, who had already left that dreadful episode behind. The lack of reaction on his part troubled her deeply, more than she cared to admit. Rand must have felt it through the bond, because he’d been trying to reassure and comfort her for the past few hours. _He_ had been trying to comfort _her_ over the loss of his hand! Wool-headed oaf.

Asmodean followed her among the cluster of tents. As usual, the former Forsaken was dressed in clothes that would have made the most elegant nobleman envious. A shirt of crimson silk under a blue velvet coat with copious amounts of lace at the sleeves… Min shook her head. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous, but she couldn’t imagine Asmodean wearing anything even remotely less fancy. It suited his tall, wiry frame, and his arrogant airs.

Rand had told her who ‘Master Natael’ truly was early on. He would have had a hard time keeping it a secret from her, in any case. Images were constantly swirling around the man, just like they did around Rand. Her viewings couldn’t seem to decide what to make of him, though. His aura glowed a silvery grey, a colour she’d never seen around anyone before, as though Asmodean himself had no idea where he stood between the Light and the Shadow.

Still, Min was rather inclined to trust him – to an extent, of course. He was too charismatic to be entirely trustworthy, but he had been with Rand for months now, without displaying any intention of betraying the Dragon. He was usually eager to assist in any way he could, although Rand rarely allowed it. Just like tonight.

They’d been discussing it earlier. Min had overheard them talk about Semirhage and the best way to get through to her. Rand had been adamant that Asmodean was not to approach her – for obvious reasons; the Forsaken might reveal his identity, which Rand kept carefully secret – but Asmodean assured him that he was the most likely to succeed in gaining useful information. He insisted that torture was useless against the Lady of Pain. Rand had refused him regardless. He would find another way to break her, he’d claimed.

Which was why Min had followed Asmodean when he’d exited Rand’s tent.

The shield on Semirhage was maintained by several Aes Sedai. Only one physically stood guard outside the tent, however. The others had set their own tents all around it. There were Asha’man nearby, as well as regular Warders. Rand was taking no chance with Semirhage. Min had kept close to the prisoner’s tent, after telling Elza Sedai to take a hike – the Aes Sedai had taken five reluctant steps away. Min disliked the woman, but she couldn’t explain why, exactly. Her viewings were unclear; it was just a gut feeling.

She’d tried to listen in on Asmodean’s conversation with Semirhage, but it seemed that the man had weaved a ward against eavesdropping. That alone was immensely stupid. What if one of the Asha’man noticed? She could only hope he’d thought to invert the weaves. Not to mention that it made it look like they were having a private chat. For all Min knew, they were scheming how to break Semirhage out and destroy Rand’s camp. Thankfully, the ward only extended to the flap of the tent, and the prisoner and questioner had been too engrossed in their discussion to notice Min as she shoved her head inside.

She’d arrived just in time to hear Semirhage cursing Asmodean. Well, at least the man wasn’t planning to rescue the Forsaken.

He’d even managed to learn something potentially useful. Although Min couldn’t be certain whether he’d have shared the information with them, had she not caught him disobeying a direct order from Rand.

And then there had been this new image floating around the right side of Asmodean’s head: a glass filled with what looked like blood. It could be wine, but she had the distinct feeling that it wasn’t. Asmodean was right about one thing: her viewings of him made little sense. She could never explain them.

She peeked inside Rand’s tent. As expected, he was sitting in his chair, browsing a stack of reports. He kept trying to use his left hand to lift the papers, and muttering under his breath when he remembered. The bond only reflected mild irritation, though, instead of the crushing despair and sense of loss anyone else would have felt in these circumstances.

Min cleared her throat. Rand would have felt her approach, but she wasn’t alone, and he had a tendency to react harshly when caught by surprise. He pivoted his head toward her, a smile at the ready, but it turned sour when he caught sight of Asmodean. Rand wasn’t wary of the former Forsaken at all. If anything, he seemed to consider the older man as a mild inconvenience. In Min’s opinion, Rand was being entirely too dismissive of the Musician.

“My Lord Dragon,” Asmodean muttered meekly, head bowed.

“I thought I made myself clear, Natael. Stop pestering me about Semirhage. I will deal with her personally.”

Min took a few steps forward and sat on the second chair, beside Rand. “He’s already talked to her.” She raised a hand to prevent him from protesting, but he glared at Asmodean nonetheless. “He was right, you know. She had trouble maintaining her composure around him.” She gestured for Asmodean to recount his discussion with the Forsaken. It didn't take long.

“My Lord Dragon, Semirhage mentioned a man named Moridin. Have you heard of him?”

Rand frowned. “No. Who is he?”

Asmodean shook his head. “I’m not certain, but she made it sound as though he was one of them.”

“A new Forsaken?” Rand said with a grimace. “Brilliant. That’s all I needed.” He sighed in irritation. “But who could he be? All of the male channelers are either gathered at the Black Tower, or following Logain. If there was another powerful male channeler at play, we would know about him, surely.”

“Unless he’s one of your Asha’man gone rogue,” Asmodean pointed out reasonably. “’Moridin’ is obviously not the name he was born with, and Logain did mention trouble at the Black Tower.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that!” Rand barked at him. It took all of Min’s self-possession not to recoil from him. The bond radiated anger, but she wasn’t sure whom it was directed at. Asmodean, Logain, Taim? All three of them? The world in general?

Asmodean was undeterred. “We know that Taim calls himself the M’Hael, but perhaps one of his favoured pupils…”

The bond almost exploded with rage and loathing at the mention of Taim. It always did. Not for the first time, Min wondered why Rand had picked the Saldaean to lead the Black Tower. He obviously didn’t trust Taim – Light, he _hated_ the man, and Logain’s words of warning had certainly done nothing to appease him.

Asmodean, who didn’t share a connection with Rand, went white when he saw the look on Rand’s face, probably thinking it was meant for him. Rand looked like he was about to murder someone, so Min supposed Asmodean’s fear was called for. She placed a soothing hand on Rand’s arm. “He has a point, you know.” She hesitated. He was already in a bad mood, but… “Rand, don’t you think we should at least pay Taim a visit? Make sure everything-”

He shot up to his feet. “For the love of the Light, Min, I have no _time_ for this! For this…pettiness between rivals. Can’t you see? Logain wants to be in charge of the Tower. _That’s_ why he wants me to intervene. He thinks he can do better than Taim.” A surge of animosity through the bond. “But Taim has more than delivered on his promises. He’s gathered hundreds of men, and the losses are…acceptable, compared to the number of fully-trained soldiers who’ve joined my army. Of course Taim’s bound to attract the envy of others – Logain especially, given their pasts. Logain's embittered. That’s all.” If he was so certain of that, why did Min feel that he would sooner strangle Taim than congratulate him on his progress? She couldn’t help but notice that Rand felt nothing of the sort regarding Logain – a mild annoyance, perhaps – and that his emotions contradicted his words. Was he trying to convince himself that he’d made the right choice by appointing Taim? Min, for one, was doubting the wisdom of such a decision. Taim radiated darkness – she couldn’t see his aura, but he seemed to suck in the light out of a room.

“I don’t _care_! Shut up!” Rand yelled at the air for no apparent reason. _Light, don’t let him go mad_ , Min pleaded.

Asmodean took two steps forward and slapped the Dragon Reborn in the face.

Min stared at the former Forsaken in shock. Had _he_ gone mad? Before Rand could react, Asmodean spoke calmly. “Lews Therin died three thousand years ago. You need to stop listening to him. My Lord Dragon,” he added as an afterthought. He chuckled bitterly. “Go ahead, disintegrate me.” Had Rand embraced _saidin_? Min hated that she couldn’t tell, especially since that…incident at Lord Algarin’s manor. “At this point, it hardly matters. If you go mad, we’re all doomed anyway.” Min waited for the inevitable backlash, but nothing came. Rand was utterly still, his face twisted in a silent snarl, his remaining fist clutched tightly at his side.

Abruptly, his face relaxed. He slumped back in his chair, looking exhausted. The anger and rage Min had felt through the bond seemed to melt away. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Rand?”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I think I need to rest.”

_No kidding_ , Min thought. “Thank you, Master Natael, that will be all for tonight.”

“Ah… My Lord Dragon. If I may?” Min glared at him. Rand was clearly in no condition to hear more criticism regarding the way he handled the Black Tower.

Rand gestured for Asmodean to speak. “I…may have neglected to tell you that…” He was sweating, Min noticed. She frowned at him suspiciously. What was he up to now? “I…I recovered my full strength, my Lord Dragon. Months ago,” he admitted.

Rand nodded tiredly. “I suspected as much.”

Min and Asmodean both stared at him in shock. He’d certainly not shared in this suspicion with her! “Mierin is gone. The shield she placed on you must have dissolved when she died.” He glanced at the older man, who was still gaping. “I’m glad you finally decided to tell me. There’s hope for you yet, Master Natael,” he added with the ghost of a smile.

She should have focused on the matter at hand but… Mierin? Her name is _Lanfear_ , you woolhead! She badly wanted to shout that in his stupid face, but resisted the urge. Now was not the time.

Asmodean had been in possession of his full power for months. How had nobody noticed? There were Asha’man everywhere! And Rand had known all along? Blood and ashes! The man barely trusted _her_ , but he’d allowed the former Forsaken to wander about as he pleased, unguarded and unshielded?

“After Graendal attacked you in Caemlyn, I feared for your safety, especially after Neya decided to leave,” Rand continued. Min scowled darkly. She’d heard much about this Neya, but had yet to meet her. Although, apparently, it wouldn’t happen any time soon; the girl had vanished a few months ago. Nobody knew where she was, but Rand didn’t seem to be overly worried about her.

“I asked her to look into unravelling the shield, so you could protect yourself when she was gone,” Rand went on, “but she told me she wouldn’t know how to do that.” He looked thoughtful. “I wish she’d spent some time training at the White Tower. She has so much potential…”

“My Lord Dragon,” Asmodean said hesitantly, “do you know where Neya is?”

Rand blinked, as if he were surprised to find him there. “Oh, no. No idea at all.” He cleared his throat. “Um… What was I saying? Ah, yes. I felt like an idiot in hindsight, because I realised that, with Mierin dead, the shield was _already_ gone. Of course, you didn’t point that out to me,” he chided Asmodean good-naturedly.

“But the shield was still in place then, my Lord Dragon.” Rand’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t know how to tell you…” He took a deep breath. “You were obviously distraught by Moiraine Sedai’s disappearance, and I didn’t want to burden you further with this, but… Lanfear didn’t die fighting Moiraine. She died weeks afterwards.”

“But Moiraine… Her bond with Lan snapped the moment she went through the _ter’angreal,_ ” Rand said.

“I suspect… I might be wrong about this,” Asmodean hastened to clarify, “but considering the letter she wrote you… Don’t you think she might have severed the bond herself? To make you _think_ she was dead?”

“Why in the Pit of Doom would she do that?” Min exclaimed.

“So I wouldn’t go after her,” Rand whispered. “So I wouldn’t risk my life to rescue her. Light-blinded fool!” Min was fairly certain that he was talking about himself. “I left her at the mercy of the Finn,” he groaned. “And now she’s dead. Because of me! She sacrificed herself, knowing Lanfear would be taken by the Finn as well…” Asmodean was wrong when he said Rand didn’t feel anything. The bond emitted painful waves of misery and guilt. Min was tempted to hug him, but wasn’t certain he would appreciate the gesture with Asmodean present.

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Rand,” Min told him firmly. “It was Moiraine’s decision. Besides, we don’t even know if it’s true,” she added with a venomous look in Asmodean’s direction.

The Musician shrugged. “It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. But Elmindreda is correct, my Lord Dragon,” he went on deadpan. Burn him! How did he even know her name? He’d been calling her that for weeks now. If she ever found out who’d spread the word… “It was Moiraine Sedai’s choice. It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t need your pity, Joar,” Rand growled. There was a surge of contempt through the bond.

Joar? Was this a new trend? Were they calling all the Forsaken by their former names now? Or had Semirhage truly hit the mark with her observation regarding Rand’s state of mind? No. He wasn’t mad. He _couldn’t_ be mad. The very thought that Rand might be hearing Lews Therin Telamon’s voice inside his head made Min’s skin crawl. He must have sensed her worry through the bond, because when he turned to her, his face softened. “I’m sorry, Min.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, Rand,” Min assured him. She glanced at Asmodean with an arched eyebrow. “Master Natael, if there are no other major revelations you wish to share with us…?”

He bowed his head. “I’ll take my leave. My Lord Dragon. Miss Farshaw.”

Min didn’t wait until he was outside to settle herself snugly in Rand’s lap. “I can help you sleep,” she murmured in his ear.

He didn’t seem averse to the suggestion.


	56. Though she be but little, she is fierce

" _Ina_?"

Neya woke up with a start to find Demian hunched over her with a burning candle in his hand. The boys had taken to calling her that after she’d announced her pregnancy, just a few days ago. It was a shortened version of  _inahan_ , which meant 'mother' in  _isleh_. Neya was fairly certain that Kalayaan had started it; no one else could speak Ancient, besides Mintel. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, but it was probably good practice. "What's going on?" she whispered thickly, sitting up on her cot.

" _Ina_ , I think Kematian is dead." Demian looked very pale. He was only twelve, one of the youngest Ayyad in her care.

Neya blinked, trying to dispel her sleep-induced haziness. Kematian was a healthy boy of eighteen, a channeler completely untouched by the taint. "What happened?" she asked as she rose to her feet.

She gestured for Demian to lead the way as he explained. "I got up to go to the latrines and I stumbled on something. It was him. He's…" He cut off, shivering violently.

Neya put an arm around his shoulders. They were practically the same height. "It's alright, _nak_." That was what Mintel called the male channelers - and Bao, most of the time. And in fact pretty much every man who happened to be younger than he was. It was an endearing term for 'boy' in _isleh_. "Just show me where he is."

They made their way to one of the larger tents where the boys slept. Kematian was lying on his stomach on the ground, blood pooling around him. Neya crouched beside him and put a hand on his neck to Delve him. He was dead, his body already getting cold; all spark of life had deserted him. There was nothing she could do. She closed her eyes for a moment. "Demian, can you fetch Kalayaan and Torn, please?" It shouldn't take long; the two men were sharing the same tent.

When Neya was certain the boy was gone, she gently flipped Kematian over. There were…holes…all over his body, set at regular intervals, as though he'd fallen in a pit filled with short, thin spikes. She checked the ground under him and found holes of the same diameter. She widened one of these and put a finger inside but felt nothing.

Kal and Torn arrived just a minute later, trailed by Demian. They stared at the young Ayyad's lifeless body. "Another snag in the Tapestry," Neya told them sadly. That was what the Sharans called the Pattern. There had been other incidents in the past few weeks, although thus far no casualties had been reported. One of the younger boys had awakened to find a nest of bright yellow snakes under his bed. Only days ago, the fires they had set up to cook dinner had suddenly flared fifty yards up in the sky and exploded into an Illuminator's fireworks display. The world was slowly unravelling, a sure sign that  _Tarmon Gai'don_ would soon be upon them.

Neya asked Torn to carry Kematian to her own tent for the time being. She told Demian to go back to bed, though the Light knew the boy was unlikely to find sleep again after this. She turned to Kalayaan, who was staring blankly at the blood. "What do you usually do with…" she began hesitantly.

"Corpses?" he supplied helpfully. She nodded wearily. "We burn them. At least, that's what they did with the dead Ayyad, back in the village. I don't know what regular folks do with their dead."

"Then we'll burn him. Do you think we should gather everyone?"

"Yes. The caretakers never let us attend a cremation, but I believe the others would like to pay their respects. We can do it tomorrow."

"I wish Mintel were here," she said wistfully. The old man had left just the day before. Bao had sent him to recruit men and women for his army, which made little sense to Neya. Why would he sent Mintel? Surely he had other people to see to such things – younger people. Preferably people Neya didn’t need.

Kal shrugged. "There's not much he could have done. Should we warn Bao?" he asked with a grimace. He didn't approve of…what had happened the previous week. Neya couldn't really blame him. She still wasn't sure how she felt about it herself.

"Probably." She hadn't seen Bao since they had spent the night together. "Not now, though. There's no point bothering him in the middle of the night for this. There's nothing he can do about it, either."

* * *

The next morning Neya asked Abrazo to open a gateway for her. The male channelers had been taught how to weave gateways, but they were not supposed to use them except at Bao's command. But surely he wouldn't mind; those were exceptional circumstances.

Neya stepped into the Magnificent Palace of Supremacy – as Mintel called it. She couldn’t decide if the  _abrishi_  had been joking or not. She would have to ask Shendla. The woman had no sense of humour, so Neya knew she could always expect the harsh truth from her.

She knocked on Bao's bedroom door. She didn't know if she would find him here, even so early in the morning, but it seemed like a good place to start. She had no clue what his schedule was, or where he usually spent his days when he wasn’t visiting the camp or severing the limbs of helpless Ayyad.

The door opened wide and revealed Saseko, the beautiful Darkfriend with whom Neya had practiced linking. The woman was very obviously naked underneath the blanket she'd draped around herself. Neya stared at her blankly - had she gotten the wrong room? - before noticing Bao sitting at his desk on the other side of the room, his bare back to her. He was covered with welts. For a moment Neya simply stood there, speechless. She wasn't sure how to react, didn’t know what to do or even think; there were too many emotions whirling around in her head.  _That must be how Mazrim feels most of the time_ , she thought irrelevantly. This was no time to bring up Mazrim, she chided herself.

Bao suddenly rose from his chair and turned to face the door. She saw him scowl, an impressive display of expression for him. He walked up to them and nudged Saseko aside. The Darkfriend gave Neya a snooty sneer before walking away, swaying her hips in an alluring manner – though why she’d do that solely for Neya’s benefit was beyond her grasp. "What are you doing here?" Bao demanded, still frowning.

Neya blinked, slowly recovering her senses. Why had she come, again? Oh, right. "Kematian is dead," she told him flatly. She was glad to hear that her voice didn't shake. She noticed absent-mindedly that Bao hadn't asked anyone to fix his nose since last week; the swelling had decreased, but he bore a rather conspicuous scar.

His scowl deepened. "What happened? And how did you get–"

"Does it matter?" Neya cut him off sharply. "He's dead. I just thought you should know, since he's one of the stronger channelers," she went on, ignoring his glare at the interruption. "Now take me back to the camp. Please," she added as an afterthought. She would show him that she could be polite no matter the circumstances, even when the only thing she truly wanted to do was to strangle that flaming hussy and wipe off that smug smile off her gorgeous face. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do to Bao himself. What _could_ she do to him? He was too likely to enjoy any sort of physical torture.

Burn the bloody man! Then again, what had she expected? He was one of the Forsaken, after all. Light, after everything that had happened to her, how could she still be so naïve?

"Neya–"

"Bao, don't make me repeat myself." She could be polite, but it wouldn't last indefinitely. "Open the flaming gateway." Well, it had lasted a good thirty seconds. Not too bad, considering.

A gateway appeared on her right. Bao was apparently too taken aback to even admonish her for using such an unlady-like word. "Thank you kindly.”

She stalked away without looking back.

* * *

Bao frowned after the girl as she made her way through the cluster of tents on the other side of the gateway. He had not expected her to come here today, or any other day, for that matter. He had forbidden the male Ayyad to open gateways without his express consent. Was he losing them? Had they decided to shift their loyalty to the girl, instead of him? He could not afford that, not now. It was past time he made his final move and rallied the whole nation for good. He had to accomplish the last Prophecy and become the Wyld. Time was running short.

Shaking his head slightly, Bao closed the gateway. Saseko moved closer to him, grinning wickedly. He dismissed her with a gesture of the hand without a glance. Truth be told, he would have preferred to have Neya with him last night, but Saseko had been closer at hand.

Not only had he not particularly enjoyed his time with the Friend of the Dark, but he knew it had been a mistake from the beginning. Once he had started, however, he would have been hard-pressed to stop. The woman was happy enough to make him suffer, but she did not go the right way about it. She was harsh and inept and had no idea where to strike for the pain to be pleasurable. He had done his best to finish as soon as possible. And now he had most likely ruined his budding relationship with Neya. She, unlike Saseko, was as apt as Semirhage when it came to dealing exquisite pain.

He and Nemene had spent quite a lot of time experimenting after Bao turned his back on the Light. She thirsted to uncover new ways to hurt and she was without equals in her knowledge of the human body. He had been more than willing to be her test subject. It had lasted a few months, until they grew bored of each other. Her interest was purely academic, of course, and he had only agreed out of sheer lust. In any case, two Chosen could never last as lovers, even two as pragmatic and devoid of emotion as they were. There was too much at stake. They could not afford any distraction, something that Balthamel – or Aran'gar, as she called herself these days – seemed to have trouble understanding, or even Graendal, to a lesser extent.

It was different with Neya. He could tell she had enjoyed it as much as he had, as odd as that may seem. But that was beside the point. Shendla said that she was important to his plans, and he had to make sure she remained at his side. She could become quite dangerous, if she decided to turn against him. She was as strong as Lanfear ever was, if his  _ter'angreal_  could be believed, even though she did not possess even a hundredth of the knowledge Mierin did. And she might have the male Ayyad on her side, should she choose to act.

Bao had to make up with her, before he left for the Hearttomb. He would have to ask Shendla for advice on the best way to proceed. He really could not afford to make it any worse.


	57. The bliss of eternal nothingness

After spending a couple of days in Arad Doman and Illian, Logain had left his men there to assist the Soldiers and Dedicated he’d sent ahead a few weeks back. Gabrelle had stayed put with them. At least they would be safe if things…didn’t go according to plan. Not that he had much of a plan. He just knew what had to be done.

Toveine alone would accompany him to the Black Tower. She was stronger than Gabrelle, and more experienced. Logain told her to wait for him at the house - the bond would let her know if he required her assistance. He opened a gateway for her, then a new one for himself. This one led straight inside Taim’s study.

He didn’t want to risk an all-out confrontation on the grounds. There could be collateral damage, and Logain wanted to avoid that at all costs.

He stepped inside the room without hesitation. He had to act fast. Taim glanced at him from his chair by the window, eyes widening in surprise, but Logain had already embraced the Source. He shielded Taim before the other man could even think of taking hold of _saidin._

Too late, Logain realised that Taim wasn’t alone.

A young man was leaning nonchalantly against the wall opposing the window. Logain didn’t think he was one of the Asha’man; although he was dressed all in black, there was no pin on his coat. He seemed utterly unimpressed by Logain’s grand entrance; he was smiling, amusement glinting in his deep blue eyes. “Good morning,” he called cheerfully.

Logain tried to shield him, but the weave unravelled. Logain frowned as _saidin_ winked out of existence. Someone had placed a shield on _him_ , and yet no one had channeled. He glared at Taim, but the Saldaean shook his head a fraction. Logain returned his attention to the younger man, who took a few steps forward, hands behind his back. “You are so predictable, Logain,” he chided with good humour.

Taim cleared his throat. “Ah… Have you two met?”

He appeared as befuddled as Logain felt. “I’ve never seen him in my life,” Logain assured him. If he had, he was fairly certain he would remember. The stranger was taller than he was, and that tended to leave an impression on Logain, who was used to tower over everyone else – Taim and al’Thor excepted.

“I’m offended that you don’t remember me,” the lad said wryly. “Though I suppose I’ve changed somewhat, since our last encounter.” For a moment, his eyes seemed ablaze, fire erupting from the orbits.

Logain felt his knees turn to jelly. His heart was hammering in his chest. “ _Ba’alzamon_ ,” he whispered. It was one thing to suspect the involvement of the Forsaken in the affairs of the Black Tower, and quite another to find oneself facing their leader – who, moreover, was supposed to be dead.

Taim was glancing from one to the other, obviously at a loss. “This is…um…Moridin,” he said with a touch of uncertainty.

“Yes, indeed,” Moridin confirmed. “But Logain would know me as my previous incarnation. The Betrayer of Hope, as they liked to call me, or, more simply-”

“You’re _Ishamael_?” Taim vociferated. Logain narrowed his eyes at him. Was he seriously trying to pretend he didn’t know who the man was? To be fair, if he was playacting, he was doing a fairly good job. His dark eyes glittered with anger. His whole body was shaking with ill-concealed rage. The entire room seemed to darken as his mood quickly deteriorated. “When were you planning on telling me?” he demanded coldly as he embraced _saidin_.

Moridin rolled his eyes. “I had hoped you would have figured it out by now,” he said earnestly. “You disappoint me, Mazrim.”

“My name is _M’Hael_!” the Saldaean shouted. Behind him, the window imploded. The shards of glass froze in place before they could reach them. Logain had caught the sudden surge of _saidin_ from Taim, but he had no idea what was keeping the shards at bay. It had to be Ishamael’s doing, somehow.

This was not the Taim Logain knew. He would never have lost his temper like that – especially in front of one of the Forsaken, Logain was tempted to add. The man had gone mad. Dangerously so.

Moridin chuckled quietly as he apparently had the same thought. “Much has changed since we last met,” he mused. “I wonder why that is? Something to do with-?” He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “It hardly matters. You’re finally growing into this role you’ve been given, _M’Hael_ , I’m pleased to note.” He didn’t sound pleased; he sounded perfectly indifferent. The shards of glass fell harmlessly to the ground in a sparkling shower.

Moridin returned his attention to Logain. “We’ve been expecting you for some time now. I knew you would make a show of confronting M’Hael here, at some point, but… What was your plan, pray tell? Were you simply going to remove him and assume his position? What of his Asha’man? Did you intend to defeat them all on your own?” he asked with an arched eyebrow. The words should have been filled with contempt and sarcasm, but all Logain could detect was a faint trace of curiosity.

“I would have given Taim’s cronies a choice,” Logain replied crisply. “Return to the Light and swear fealty to me, or suffer the consequences at al’Thor’s hands.”

“ _Hand_ ,” Moridin corrected him with a smirk. “But you seem overly confident in the boy’s interest in all this. Haven’t you tried to warn him already? Did he promise to take action? Did he sanction...” – he made a vague gesture encompassing Logain – “…whatever _this_ is?” Logain remained stubbornly silent. “Face it, Logain. You’re on your own. Al’Thor has abandoned you. He’s _forsaken_ the Black Tower,” Moridin added slyly.

“Toveine is here,” he snarled. “She’ll know something’s wrong.” He cursed himself for a fool the moment the words were out of his mouth. _Burn me for a fool!_

Moridin let out a pitying laugh. “I appreciate the forewarning.” He didn’t turn to Taim as he addressed him. “Have your Asha’man bring the woman here, M’Hael,” he commanded. “We can start with her.”

* * *

“Start what?” Logain demanded. M’Hael ignored him entirely as he summoned Mishraile.

The lad practically jumped out of the gateway. “M’Hael?” he asked as he saluted. Then he caught sight of Logain, who wasn’t bound but simply stood there, apparently considering his options. Mishraile sneered, though M’Hael wasn’t sure why he despised Logain so much. Perhaps because M’Hael himself affected to despise the other man? Mishraile was too easily influenced.

The Asha'man's face turned as white as milk when he realised there was another person in the room, though Moridin didn’t grace him with a glance. M’Hael’s men were little more than lackeys in the Forsaken’s eyes and not worth his attention. Mishraile was the only one who’d encountered Moridin, and that had been purely accidental. He hadn’t fully recovered from that episode, which had included a great deal of pain. M’Hael had tried to interfere as Moridin tortured the lad, but how many times had he insisted on people _knocking_ before barging in? At least now M’Hael knew it wouldn’t happen again.

Mishraile swallowed some bile, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he eyed the Forsaken with unconcealed awe and terror.

M’Hael snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Asha’man, take Coteren with you and have Toveine Sedai arrested.” He held Mishraile’s fearful gaze. “Do _not_ let anyone see you, and make certain she doesn’t escape. At all costs.” He hoped she wouldn’t make a scene; her bond to Logain must have alerted her that things had gone awry. Still, he trusted Mishraile – not so much Coteren, but the other Asha’man had been ‘borrowed’ by Moridin. Coteren was the only available option at the moment.

Mishraile saluted once more. “As you command, M’Hael.” The lad embraced _saidin_ and quickly disappeared through a gateway.

“I trust you can deal with her on your own?” Moridin asked casually.

The question irked. She was a _woman_ ; of course he could see that she was Turned without supervision. Turning an Aes Sedai would be a pleasant distraction from the gruesome process of attempting to Turn his own men. M’Hael nodded curtly.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Moridin announced. “Take up Logain’s shield.” Without another word, he vanished into thin air. Logain’s mouth dropped open. M’Hael took that opportunity to bind him with weaves of Air as he placed his own shield on the man. He gingerly unsheathed Logain's sword and broke it in half with a combination of Earth and Fire. Just to be safe.

“How did he-?” Logain seemed to regain his composure and remember where he was. He cleared his throat roughly and sighed with annoyance when he realised he was now bound as well as shielded. “Start what?” he demanded again. “What are going to do to Toveine? I swear, Taim, if you but touch a hair-”

Ever so gallant. Here he was, at M’Hael’s mercy, but he worried about what would happen to his precious Aes Sedai. “How did you know him?” M’Hael interrupted him. “Ishamael, I mean.”

Logain sniggered dryly. “You truly didn’t realise who he was, did you? How pathetic. He must think highly of you, to not even bother introducing himself properly.”

M’Hael sighed. “I can see that you’re trying to provoke me, but it won’t work, Logain.” He smiled crookedly. “I’ve already shattered the window.”

The other man tried another approach. “Logain, is it now? Are we finally taking our relationship to the next level?” he sneered. “I always knew we’d end up being good friends.”

M’Hael frowned slightly. He hadn’t realised he’d been calling him that, but he quickly recovered. “Everyone calls you that,” he pointed out with what he hoped would pass for apathy. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Logain shrugged. “Suit yourself. Mazrim.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Peace,” he muttered eventually.

“Yes, that was decidedly disturbing. I heard it too,” Logain concurred. “Taim it is, then. Don’t think I’ll suddenly start calling you M’Hael,” he warned.

Oddly enough, it didn’t bother M’Hael that much. In any case, there were no more windows to smash. “You didn’t answer my question,” he prompted.

Logain chuckled darkly. “What did you think? That you were special? Ishamael has been roaming the earth freely for years. Decades, possibly. Did you really believe you were the only channeler he’d tried to recruit?” Logain smiled condescendingly. “Perhaps you were stronger than most, but ultimately you’re just a pawn, Taim. A puppet.”

M’Hael ignored that last part. He was well aware of that; there was no need to dwell on it. “Are you saying that Ishamael came to you,” he enunciated carefully, “but that you _refused_ him?”

“Of course I bloody well refused him!” Logain thundered. “That’s how I got arrested in the first place! Ishamael must have alerted his Aes Sedai, the Black Ajah, who mounted an assault against me the very next morning with their more…colourful sisters.”

M’Hael considered this for a moment. He envied Logain’s brashness, his reckless bravery, but he couldn’t let it show. He still had his dignity. Parts of it, anyway. “To be fair, you had an army at your back,” he remarked. “Ishamael caught me when I was on my own, and rather defenceless.”

“You spineless coward. You have a talent for coming up with excuses, I’ll give you that.” The righteous scorn in his voice was almost enough to make M’Hael recoil. Logain had hit a nerve, and he knew it, but for once he didn’t look smug about it. “I cannot be bought, Taim. I cannot be tempted with futile promises, and I cannot be _bullied_ into joining the Shadow.” Despite everything, Logain was trying his best to look like he was not a prisoner, like everything was under his control.

M’Hael exhaled heavily. “I know.” He couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of his voice, which made Logain scowl. “That’s why we’ll be using a different approach.”

* * *

“Do your worst, Darkfriend,” Logain had challenged M’Hael before Mishraile and Coteren brought him down to the basement to join Toveine – she hadn’t come quietly, but nobody had noticed the ruckus she caused, according to Mishraile.

M’Hael poured himself another glass of wine and started pacing as soon as the others were gone.

His last, tiny sliver of hope had just been snuffed out like a candle.

Peace! What in the Pit of Doom had Logain been _thinking_ , to barge in unannounced, with no back-up? Well, obviously he’d intended to surprise M’Hael with an attack, but what sort of wool-headed plan was this? He’d come alone, with no reinforcement, and without even checking that the way was clear? If he’d guessed that M’Hael was associating with the Forsaken, hadn’t it crossed his senseless mind that one of them might actually _be_ there? Blood and _flaming_ ashes!

He’d been relying on Logain to have him neatly arrested and imprisoned, so that M’Hael’s true colours would finally been revealed to all – without Moridin suspecting that M’Hael had let it happen intentionally. M’Hael’s fate would have been decided quickly – al’Thor would no doubt have him executed as soon as possible – and then Logain could assume command of the Black Tower and hopefully set everything right.

But the lumbering oaf had completely botched it.

M’Hael didn’t dare reveal himself and openly betray Moridin – Ishamael, he amended bitterly. How had he not realised who he truly was? The Forsaken was right, M’Hael should have figured it out eons ago. His brain wasn’t functioning as well as it used to. His mind was often sluggish. Everything felt…numb. It could have easily been blamed on the wine, he supposed, but deep down, he knew the wine had nothing to do with it – although it didn’t help, admittedly.

In any case, M’Hael simply couldn’t take that initiative. If Logain had taken over the Tower, as M’Hael had hoped, he was persuaded that Logain would have had the men’s support, even that of some of the full Asha’man. He was certainly charismatic and inspiring enough. He was a true leader. He could have driven out the Forsaken for good. But with Logain out of the picture, there was nothing to be done.

If M’Hael came clean to al’Thor now, he would be gentled and hanged, and his Asha’man with him, likely as not. Moridin would Turn Logain to the Shadow regardless, and then who would take charge of the Tower, who would look after M’Hael’s men?

The best M’Hael could do, at this point, would be to delay Logain’s impending ordeal – and hope for a miracle.

So far, he’d had little success Turning the Soldiers he’d selected – new recruits who wouldn’t be missed. Moridin pestered him more than ever, but he still hadn’t provided any female channeler to speed up the proceedings. He said that M’Hael ought to find them himself; after all, several Aes Sedai had been bonded and belonged to the Black Tower. Those were the ones Logain had bonded, however, and they had all followed their Warders – or were they the Warders? – to Arad Doman and Illian, where al’Thor had dispatched them. Perhaps Toveine would prove useful – Turning _her_ would be easy, but she was only one person. Ideally, M’Hael would need thirteen women.

Well, no. Ideally, Logain would somehow break out of his shield, overpower Mishraile and Coteren, call for back-up and overthrow M’Hael. Then the Black Tower could pursue its intended course and build the Dragon Reborn the army of male channelers he required. The Forsaken would be frightened off and would no longer interfere.

M’Hael would be executed. No more guilt, no more fear. The bliss of eternal nothingness.

Then he realised how foolish he was being – Ishamael had been brought back from the dead. What if the Dark One decided that he wasn’t done with M’Hael?

There was no winning this bloody game. The best he could realistically hope for was that al’Thor failed at the Last Battle. As Ishamael had explained, this would be it – the end of the world, the end of time itself. The reign of non-existence.

He laughed aloud at the nonsense his own mind was spewing, thanks to the deranged Forsaken. He laughed until his sides hurt and his head ached and unbidden tears welled in his eyes. He sounded a tad hysterical, even to his own ears, but who cared? He was alone.

Utterly, completely alone.


	58. There's a great woman behind every idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: brief implication of rape/incest.

_Curse men and their libidinous urges!_  Shendla thought fiercely.  _He could not have kept his breeches on for another minute to get the girl, could he?_ She felt embittered and annoyed at Bao's foolishness. She expected better of him. She thought she'd made it clear just how important the  _ulikar_  was. Of course, Bao didn't know  _why_  she was important. Shendla thought it best to leave that part out and feign ignorance – at least for the time being.

She could not fathom why men did that. What could possibly be Bao’s excuse? With a gateway, he could have fetched the girl and be back in his bedroom before a minute had gone by! How she hated this. It brought back memories she would have rather kept buried. Her father had been such a man, never able to keep it in his breeches. Unfortunately, isolated as they’d been, Shendla, his only daughter, had been the only female he could lay his hands on.

She shook her head determinedly. Better not to think about that. Her father was dead fifteen years now, and good riddance. It was no use dwelling on the past. She had to focus on what was to come. The future of her people – of mankind itself – depended on it.

She strode past the rows of tents until she spotted the girl. She was talking with a middle-aged, frail-looking woman. It had to be the midwife, Nyamukuta. She had almost forgotten about that. The girl was pregnant with another man's child. Shendla had _not_ expected that. Thankfully, it didn't seem to bother Bao - which was odd, but Shendla wasn't about to complain.

Both women turned to her as she came into view. The girl glared at her, as she often did. What had Shendla ever done to her?

"What are you doing here?" the  _ulikar_  demanded crisply.

The midwife nodded to Shendla before leaving them. Shendla ignored her. "We need to talk."

The girl snorted. "He sent you, didn't he? Burn the man. Can't be bothered to come himself." She put her hands on her hips. "There's nothing to talk about, Shendla. I don't care what he does. I don't have time for this, anyway. I have many things to see to."

She turned to depart, but Shendla grabbed her arm firmly. "Don't be foolish, girl. There is too much at stake. Let's go to your tent," she added imperiously, gesturing for her to lead the way.

The  _ulikar_  rolled her eyes dramatically but finally gave in. "This is my tent," she pointed at the one behind her. They made their way inside and sat on the ground. Before Shendla could open her mouth, they were interrupted by Torn, who lifted the canvas without warning. " _Ina_ , we have a–" He spotted Shendla, and a wide grin broke upon his face. "Hello there," he greeted her in coarse Sharan dialect. They had been friends for years; he was the one who’d freed her from her father's clutches when she was just a girl.

Shendla returned his smile briefly. "Torn, can it wait a moment? I need to talk with this one. It's important." She inclined her head toward the girl.

"Of course, of course. It's nothing we can't handle. I'll come back later. See you around," he told her genially.

Shendla returned her attention to the  _ulikar_. "You must make peace with Bao, girl."

"I  _must_  make peace with him? Why? What's it to you?" she demanded.

"It's nothing to  _me_ , personally. I could do without you, believe me," Shendla replied with a grimace. Good grief, she was annoying. Couldn't the Tapestry have chosen a more amenable person to see this through? "But Bao needs you to accomplish his destiny. I have seen it," she went on matter-of-factly.

"And why would I want to help him achieve that? Why would you, for that matter? You do know who he is, don't you? You must know what he truly intends to do. Isn't it obvious that he's manipulating you, all of you? Or are you so blindly in love with him that you do not see that?" the girl asked with a sneer.

Shendla let her rant with all the patience she could muster. Better if they got it all out of the way once and for all. When the girl was done, she spoke quietly. "I am not in love with him, although I have become quite fond of him, it's true. I do know who he is and what his plans are. I know them better than you do, girl," she said flatly. "I do not believe he is manipulating us, however. Oh, he was at first," she added when the  _ulikar_  scoffed, "but it's different now. He's changed. He may not believe in the Prophecies, not entirely, but he knows this is the path that he must follow to achieve his objective. I also know that he has become quite attached to this land and its people, although he will not admit it. He continually claims that he doesn't care for anything or anyone, but he is only deluding himself. He is not as heartless as he seems to think, or would like to be." Shendla paused for a moment, eyeing the young woman thoughtfully. She remained blessedly silent. "I need you – no, we all need you – to make sure that he fulfils his fate, because the alternative is unthinkable. This world needs Bao to become the Wyld, if it wants to prevail at the Last Battle."

"You're not making any sense," the girl broke in. "If you know who he is, why do you want him to prevail? Are you a Darkfriend?" she asked with a frown.

"I am not, nor have I ever been," Shendla said firmly – and as calmly as she could, in the face of such a grave accusation. Obviously, the girl had no idea how insulting her question was. Were all Westerners so casual about these matters? Calling someone a Darkfriend like this… Unless one had solid evidence to back that claim, spreading such tales was punishable by death. Mintel should have taught her that. "Bao does not see it yet," Shendla went on, "but before the end, he will save the world. That is why you are here. The Tapestry has put you in Bao's path for this very purpose."

The girl stared at her as if she were mad. Shendla let out a small sigh. She was quite used to these looks. "Shendla, he's called the Wyld. That means Dragon Slayer, doesn't it?" Shendla nodded. "Then how will accomplishing the Prophecies help save the world? If Bao kills Rand – the Dragon Reborn – the world is doomed. Unless your Prophecies claim otherwise?" she asked dubiously.

"It is simply stated that the Wyld will unite the people of Shara and lead them in the Last Battle, where he will accomplish his fate. It says that exactly. There is no mention of him actually slaying the Dragon."

"I don't get it," the girl said, looking puzzled. "Why would he be called Dragon Slayer if his purpose was not to slay the Dragon?"

"Prophecies are always full of riddles and metaphors and are subject to interpretation besides. Their true meaning is only made clear  _after_  a prophecy has come to pass. I do not think Bao is supposed to literally slay the Dragon. Or perhaps the Dragon is not the one we assume." Shendla made a dismissive gesture. "It matters not. What is meant to be, will be. It is you who concerns me at the moment." She looked at the girl appraisingly. "You will help him accomplish his destiny, that much is certain. I have seen it. For that to happen, you must remain close to him. You must remind him what it means to be human."

"But why me? Why can't  _you_  do it? You claim to be fond of him. And he seems…well, fond might be too strong a word, but he holds you in high respect. Which is more than I can say of myself," she said with a grimace.

Shendla shook her head. "It is not my role. I must guide him, help him find what he is seeking, nothing more. I do not know why you have been chosen for the task, girl. I just know that you have, and that if you fail, it will mean death for us all."

"Then we're dead," the girl announced. Shendla scowled at her. "I have no intention of going back to him. Did you really expect me to fawn over him while he tumbles every woman he can lay his hands on?" she asked sarcastically. "You'll need to find someone else. Ask Saseko, why don't you," she said angrily.

"Fool girl! It is not about you," Shendla hissed. She was losing what little patience she had left. She understood the girl's resentment, but one must put aside such petty feelings in light of the circumstances. Could she quit acting like a spoiled, entitled child for a minute? She sounded a lot like Bao himself, when she spoke like that. "Will you really doom the world because you must place your own little person above everyone else?" she scolded her. The girl looked startled. "Bao cares nothing for Saseko. Men have urges, and she just happened to be there. You must  _make_  him want you, and only you. The fact that he asked me to talk to you is an indication of how much he regrets it. He made a mistake. He is not without flaw. No one is."

"If he's so regretful, why did he send you? Why didn't he come himself?" She didn't pause long enough for Shendla to reply. Were all _u_ _likar_ as rude as this one? Shendla had never met another Westlander before. "In any case, I'm quite sure Bao only feels bad because you told him I'm important and he's afraid I'll do something to sabotage his plans."

_She's not entirely stupid_ ,  _at least_ , Shendla reflected wryly. "He did want to come himself. I convinced him to let me talk to you instead. I said you would be more amenable toward me, and that he might make matters worse. Was I wrong?"

"Do I look amenable?" she asked nastily.

"Stop behaving like a child," Shendla chided her. "Don't you understand how much depends on you, girl? I know you care for the Ayyad," Shendla said. "And for Bao as well. Don't deny it," she said sternly. "Would you really let them all down because your pride was hurt? Bao knows he behaved poorly. You can be certain it won't happen again. He's a lot of things, but he's not an idiot."  _Most of the time, he's not_ , she amended to herself.

"Alright, fine, you win. I'll talk to him," the girl said reluctantly.

Light be praised! So much drama over such a little thing. Sometimes, Shendla felt that she was the only person in the world who was able to see the larger picture. Had no one else noticed that the Last Battle was fast approaching? In light of that - the ultimate struggle of the Light against the Shadow, whose outcome would define the world for Ages to come - personal affairs were of no importance.

"Tonight," the girl went on. "Or tomorrow. I really don't have time for this now. I wasn't lying about that."

She stood up and Shendla imitated her. "Thank you for hearing me out. I realise that the task set upon you is not an easy one, girl. But this is not a time to shirk your responsibilities. There is simply too much at stake."

The  _ulikar_  gave her a calculating look but said nothing, so Shendla left.


	59. Because you're mine, I walk the line

Neya decided that she would leave Bao to stew for a while longer. She would ask Abrazo to take her to the palace the next evening. When she came back to her tent after dinner, however, she found the Forsaken sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed. Mintel had explained about the meditating state that the  _abrishi_  often sought, but Neya hadn’t realised that Bao did it, too. Despite the fact that he appeared asleep, Bao looked up as soon as she walked in and stood up gallantly. "Shendla said that you wanted to talk." Was there an edge of uncertainty in his voice? No, she must have dreamed it. Bao was self-confidence incarnate.

Neya sat down in a huff. Burn the bloody woman! It had been a long day; she was exhausted. Did they have to do this _now_? She hadn’t even had time to consider Shendla’s words – and their implication. Was the Sharan truly a servant of the Light? She hadn’t said so outright, but she certainly seemed determined to save her people. From whom or what, precisely, Neya couldn’t say. From Rand, who would supposedly break the world? Or from the Shadow? And what exactly was _Neya_ supposed to do about it, in any case? Bao – Demandred – would never return to the Light, surely, no matter what anyone did. He was too intent on destroying Lews Therin, and it didn’t seem to change anything that Rand was not the man he despised. Bao had transferred his hatred from the original Dragon to Rand without hesitation or second thought.

Asmodean had not so much abandoned the Shadow as it had abandoned _him_ ; he therefore wasn’t a good example of a Forsaken having a sudden change of heart. He simply hadn’t had a choice in the matter. Besides, Jasin only did what he had to do in order to survive. Neya didn’t think that, deep down, he cared much about the Light or the Shadow. He cared only about himself.

As for Ishamael… Neya didn’t think he’d ever been truly evil. He’d turned to the Shadow because, in his opinion, the Dark One’s triumph was inevitable, as was its direct consequence: the end of the world. It would have been futile to try to prevent it, a waste of time and energy.

It had been clear to Neya that Elan wasn’t very fond of living anymore. She was convinced that he only breathed in and out because it required no conscious effort on his part. He must have been relieved to die at last.

All in all, Neya doubted that any of the Forsaken could be made to see sense. They were too far gone.

Besides, what if they did return to the Light and begged for forgiveness, for a second chance? Rand needed Asmodean to teach him, but what would he do – or had already done, as far as Neya knew – when Jasin was no longer useful to him? The man was a cold-blooded murderer, after all. They all were, no matter how much Neya wished she could ignore it, sometimes. They had strengths and virtues, concealed under layers of darkness and scorn and bitterness, but in the end, they had committed crimes that simply could not be overlooked. They were beyond redemption, at least in the eyes of…well, anyone but Neya herself, probably.

She needed more time to think about all this. Burn Shendla! As if Neya didn’t have enough on her plate already.

Bao sat down in front of her before she could turn him away. "There's not much to talk about," Neya said with a resigned sigh. "I understand that things were different during the Age of Legends.” Jasin had been more than happy to educate her in that regard. “Everybody bedded everybody, nobody cared. But, in case you hadn't noticed, this is  _not_ the Age of Legends," she told him dryly.

His face remained as impassive as ever. "It was not quite as you make it sound, but it was indeed different, I concede. Sexual fidelity was not as uncommon as you seem to think, however."

Neya felt herself blush. Apparently, Bao had picked up the Sharan habit of using _that_ word without a second thought. She had never even heard the word 'sex' uttered out loud in her life before being brought to Shara.  _No, that's not entirely true_ , she amended. Jasin had been quite careless with some words. Maybe it was a thing of their Age. "People simply took the time to define the terms of their relationship," Bao went on matter-of-factly.

_Oh, of course. Silly me! I should have specified that you should not hump anyone when I'm not around_ , Neya thought wryly. "You know, to most people, this would be a given." She was silent for a moment as she considered her next words. "I don't even know why I'm so bothered," she told him eventually. Well, she did know, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit to being jealous of a bloody Darkfriend. "You and I – it was just the one time, and I don't understand why it happened in the first place." She looked up at him tentatively. "Whatever came over you, all of a sudden?"

Bao didn't look away, but he didn't answer, either. Neya gestured dismissively. "It doesn't matter. It makes more sense for you to bed the Darkfriend, anyway," she said with an involuntary grimace. Saseko was much better-looking than she was. And she was probably more…experienced in bed as well.

Bao was still silent. Neya was about to send him away – why had he come if he was not going to say anything? – when he finally spoke. "I would rather have you," he said softly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "Why me, burn you?" She passed a hand through her hair in frustration. "We have nothing in common. I mean, let's face it, you're a bloody Forsaken." She saw him tense, although she wasn't sure which word had caused him to. Well, he bloody well was! "And I'm pregnant," she added. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that, but why would he involve himself with someone who carried another man's child? Shendla must have addled his brains with her visions and premonitions, or whatever they were. "Why me?" she demanded again, more firmly this time.

"I do not know how to answer that question," Bao told her simply.

Neya stared at him in disbelief. "Look, I'm not as stupid as you seem to think. I know what Shendla told you. Do you really expect me to attach myself to you for no other reason than the fancies of someone I barely know?" Once again, Bao made no reply. She threw up her hands in irritation. "Forget it. This won't work out. It can't." Light, how could it?

Bao was gazing at her intently. Blood and ashes! Why wasn't he _talking_?

She was considering sending a pinching thread of Air to make him react when he spoke. "I want you. Not because Shendla said so," he added when she tried to protest. "What happened last week was entirely her idea, admittedly." Of course it was. Burn the bloody woman! "But that's irrelevant now. I could not force myself to be with you if I did not want to, no more than you could. But I  _do_  want you," he repeated, more forcefully this time. "And I was hoping you might return the feeling," he went on hesitantly. She was not imagining it this time.

His dark eyes were still fixed on hers and she had to clear her throat before speaking. Light blind him! Why did he have to be so flaming handsome? "Fine," she muttered eventually. "Suit yourself. But if it's me, it's  _only_  me."

"Very well," he replied flatly.

Neya snorted. "You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for it. If we're going to do this, I also want to sleep with you." Her eyes widened slightly when she realised what she'd said. "I mean sleep as in…sleep. As in rest. Slumber," she went on frantically, feeling her cheeks turn redder with each word.

"As you wish," Bao said with no intonation whatsoever.

"It was not a suggestion," she stated dryly. "There's something else," she went on. "I want you to tell me everything I want to know." She was going to forsake – ironically enough – her soul for him, but that didn't mean she was giving up on gathering information. It was the least she could do, and it might still come in handy. Besides, she was dying to know what was going on in the West. And there were a few other trifles that concerned her…

He scowled slightly at that. "What would you like to know?"

“Are you and Shendla…” Neya took a deep breath. “Were you two ever…?” Light! How did one go about phrasing this properly?

“Yes,” Bao replied quietly. “We were lovers for a short time. A few weeks,” he specified.

Until he actually said the words, Neya had not really considered the possibility. She didn’t know how she felt about it. “Do you…love her?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “Not like that.”

_Not like that._ What in the Pit of Doom did that mean? “And Saseko?”

She could have sworn that his lips twitched slightly. “She is nothing.”

Neya disliked the Darkfriend, but that seemed like a harsh pronouncement. Well, she’d had her answers. She just wasn’t sure what to make of them.

"What's Rand up to?" she asked. She really ought to sort her priorities – this should have been question number one.

Bao was silent for a moment. "He captured Semirhage a few days ago," he said eventually.

"Oh, good." Neya didn’t try to suppress her grin. She wasn’t sure what pleased her more – that Semirhage had been captured, or that Bao had admitted to it.

“She blasted his left hand to oblivion,” Bao added conversationally.

Oh. That was…not so good. Poor Rand. Hopefully Nynaeve would be able to help with that…provided that she was still around. "What about the other Forsaken?"

"Osan'gar died during the cleansing of the taint. He was Aginor reincarnated," he clarified when Neya threw him a questioning look. Reincarnated? What was he saying? That the Forsaken Rand had already dispatched were being brought back to life? She’d never imagined that even the Dark One could do that. Light, was Rand aware of this? Her mind did a double-take. Could Elan…? "Balthamel was reincarnated as well,” Bao went on before the thought could take proper form. “He – she – is known as Aran'gar now. The others have made no specific move that I know of," he went on carefully.

"That you know of," she repeated dubiously. That was unlikely – he had spies everywhere – but Neya let it slide. He was actually answering her questions; she couldn't let the opportunity pass. "What else is going on?"

"Nothing of import.” He chewed it over for a minute. “There was news of an entire population committing suicide, but I do not think it will have any influence on present events or on the Last Battle. Seanchan is aflame with rebellion and chaos, thanks to Semirhage. Their Empress was assassinated, and the heiress cannot be found," he explained.

Well, Neya couldn't care less about the flaming Seanchan. They probably deserved all of that – and more. "An entire population killed itself?" she repeated incredulously. "Why would they do that?"

"I do not know why. I did not enquire. They were called the Amayar. They lived on Tremalking," he replied dispassionately. "A peaceful people, apparently."

Neya shook her head in dismay. "That's all? What about the Black Tower? And the White, for that matter," she added as an afterthought.

"You want to know about Taim," Bao said flatly.

How perceptive of him. "Among other things," she said with a detached shrug.

"You should not dwell on him, Neya. He has changed since you last saw him, and I do not think you would like the man he has become."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll be the judge of that, thank you. But forget about him. It doesn't matter." If something dire happened to Mazrim, she would know. Wouldn't she? Their connection was so faint that she would have thought it gone entirely, if Mazrim hadn’t suddenly manifested himself the previous week, albeit briefly. "What about the other  _ta'veren_? Mat Cauthon and Perrin Aybara?"

"I do not know. I have not been following them too closely, of late. Your friend al’Vere, the rebel Amyrlin, has been captured by the White Tower, however. She is alive and well, as far as I know," Bao added when he saw Neya's worried look. "There really is not much to tell. Unless you had a more specific concern?"

Neya shook her head. "No, I suppose not." She'd had no time to prepare her questions, but more would come in due time. "Oh, I almost forgot," she said abruptly. "From now on, I will flaming cuss whenever I bloody want to," she told him with a smug smile. "That is non-negotiable." His lips tightened but he made no response, so Neya forged ahead. "I want new clothes. No dresses. And I want to take a bath every day," she added firmly. She wondered how much Bao would agree to before he realised she was taking advantage of the situation.

"As you wish," he said again. A gateway suddenly opened, revealing his bedchamber. Bao stood up and held out a hand for her.

"That's not the bathroom," she said stupidly.

"Well spotted," he replied with a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. Apparently, he was running out of patience.

Neya eyed him uncertainly. "I should let the others know I'm leaving…"

Bao gazed at her hungrily, hand still outstretched. "No time for that now."

It was too late to back down. She took his hand and followed him to the other side – through the gateway that lead to his room, and to the Shadow.


	60. He’s like the night and the storm in the heart of the sun

“I know about you and Asmodean,” Demandred announced bluntly, and with a faint trace of accusation. He addressed Moridin in what was now called the Old Tongue, as he always did. Moridin was grateful for it, because the barbaric language that was commonly used nowadays almost physically hurt his ears.

Moridin never expected much in the way of greetings from any of the Chosen, but this was a peculiar opening line indeed. It was all he could do not to laugh. He had just summoned Demandred here on important business, and the man wanted to discuss his _love life_? His bygone love life, might he add. What was Demandred’s take on this? He’d never cared about that sort of things before. “I know about you and Semirhage,” he countered with a crooked smile. He might as well humour him.

Demandred frowned. “Everyone knows about us. It was never a secret.”

“Neither was my relationship with Nessosin. In fact, you may very well be the only one of the Chosen who was not aware of it. The man was never discreet, as you well know, and he was pettier than most. Perhaps it never reached you because he was ever afraid of you,” Moridin added with a faint smile.

Demandred was obviously wroth. He didn’t like not to know things, hated to be left out, although it hadn’t been intentional. Moridin had never judged it relevant to share that particular titbit with him. “Is that why he still lives?” The accusatory tone was stronger now.

Oh. That was what troubled him. Demandred had offered several times to dispose of the Musician. Moridin chuckled. “I assure you, I harbour no feelings, good or bad, towards him. Nessosin lives because he may yet prove useful. Moreover, the Great Lord has not seen fit to let me know what He wanted done with the man. I therefore assume his fate is in our hands. In mine,” he amended.

Demandred looked incredulous. He displayed his emotions much more often than he used to, Moridin reflected. Perhaps it was simply because he was cross. Once he lost his self-control, you could never predict what Demandred would do. It was only one of the many reasons why he was so dangerous. “You intend to take him back? After everything he’s done? He betrayed us! He’s been assisting Lews Therin for months, and probably gave away our plans, our secrets…”

“Plans and secrets?” Moridin sneered. “Nessosin didn’t know anything useful. Lanfear was in charge of their unlikely duo, and he was little more than her handy man. If that.” Moridin summoned a glass of wine out of the air. Summer rosé wine from the Western Islands, an exquisite vintage. It was just the right temperature. He didn’t bother to offer Demandred a drink; the man never drank liquor. Or accept any food or beverage from one of the Chosen, which was probably wise. Moridin took a sip before continuing. “I doubt he was even able to teach much to al’Thor, with the shield Lanfear provided.”

“Lanfear is dead,” Demandred pointed out.

Interesting. Hadn’t he yet figured out who Cyndane was? Or was he expecting Moridin to unwittingly reveal what he already suspected? Moridin decided to change the subject. “I haven’t yet made a decision regarding Nessosin,” he explained. “I’m simply waiting to see what he’ll do, when _Tarmon Gai’don_ begins.”

Demandred snorted. “What he’ll do? Hide and cower is what he’ll do. It’s what he always does. And when the dust settles, he’ll go wherever is safest.”

Moridin glanced up from his glass with curiosity. “The dust? Do you truly believe there’ll be such a thing when it’s all over?” he asked quietly.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Demandred demanded.

“Do you _still_ believe that there’ll be a world left for you to rule when the Great Lord reclaims what is rightfully His?” Moridin rephrased.

“You speak just like her,” Demandred muttered with irritation. Moridin assumed he meant Neya. The two seemed quite…close, if his sources could be believed. Moridin had no reason not to believe it; he had expected it. “Of course there will be. That’s what we’re fighting for, is it not? If the endgame was utter and final annihilation, why would we help make it happen?”

“Well, in my case, that’s precisely why. Utter and final annihilation is what I aim for.”

Demandred shook his head. “You’re insane,” he commented matter-of-factly.

“I haven’t been sane in a long time, my friend,” Moridin confirmed. “But I’m perfectly lucid. You, on the other hand, are delusional.” He sighed sadly. “You were always an idealist, Barid Bel.”

“I refuse to believe it. After all these years… Why in the Pit of Doom would He destroy us, His faithful servants, especially after we win this war for Him? The Great Lord has no reason to forsake us, no reason to eradicate this world, not once Lews Therin, the champion of the Light, has been dealt with.”

“The Great Lord does not need _reasons_ to do anything. He has no feelings, no sense of need or want. His only purpose is to end us all, to revel in His own presence. The very concept of existence will cease to exist, when He is released from his prison.” He realised that last bit must make little sense to anyone but himself, but it didn’t matter. If even Demandred, one of the brightest minds alive, couldn’t fathom this notion, no one ever would. “Neya has a point, you know,” he went on. “You have become naive, obsessed as you are with Lews Therin. You fail to see the bigger picture, to take into account the consequences of allowing the Great Lord of the Dark to figuratively walk the earth.” Of course the Great Lord didn’t actually _walk_. He was an entity, not a person. People thought Him the incarnation of evil, but the very meaning of the word was lost on Him. The Great Lord simply _was_.

“You have been in contact with her.” _This_ was the part he chose to focus on? Moridin laughed internally. The man was smitten, and that was not a word he would have ever thought to apply to Demandred – or Barid Bel Medar, for that matter. Perhaps this…Bao he impersonated had become a different man altogether, thanks to Neya. The consequences of the girl’s nature were so unpredictable, so _bizarre,_ that it sometimes made Moridin dizzy.

Still, he didn’t like Demandred’s threatening tone. The man ought to remember his place. “I have not once talked to Neya since my initial demise.” His voice was colder than the inside of the refrigerator he'd recently unearthed in a stasis box. “She does not know that I have been reincarnated. Unless you mentioned it to her?” he asked idly. He knew perfectly well that he hadn’t. The girl was clueless – and she would likely be furious when she found out that Demandred had kept this from her. If she ever did.

Demandred was clearly fuming. “You had better stay away from her,” he warned Moridin. “She is mine.”

Moridin doubted that Neya would appreciate the comment. Besides, she truly didn’t belong to anyone. Because of what she was, her life barely belonged to herself. He had no intention of being reunited with the girl, but Demandred ought to know that he wasn’t the one who gave the orders. He would do well to remember who Moridin was – not an old colleague, but the _Nae’blis_. He accused Moridin of favouring Nessosin and then behaved as though they were two friends catching up over a drink at the local café. Too much familiarity had never suited Moridin – not in any of his past lives. “Do not, ever again, tell me what to do. You obey _me_ , Demandred. I shall do what I deem necessary.”

Demandred looked barely subdued. “As you say,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Do you believe I wanted this?” Moridin went on. “I used to, you know. As Ishamael, I had long ago named myself _Nae’blis_ , centuries before any of you were released.”

Demandred’s face didn’t change. The man must have already guessed that Ishamael had roamed the world while the other Chosen slumbered inside the Bore. “If you do not want the title, I would be happy to relieve you of the burden,” he said with a touch of sarcasm.

Sarcasm was so rare coming from Demandred that Moridin laughed aloud. “I do not want it, but none of you _deserve_ it. You do not have what it takes to see this through. I was always meant to be the Shadow’s champion. I knew it, and the Great Lord knew it. He’s been deceiving you, making you compete for something you could never hope to attain. But if you insist… I’ll gladly leave it to you. And leave you to deal with the consequences of your actions. A single thread of Balefire, my old friend. That is all I require.” Several tiny bead-like _saa_ danced across his eyes as he said the words. The sight appeared to unnerve Demandred.

“Are you really so intent on dying, Elan?” Demandred whispered.

“Of course,” he replied with faint surprise, taking no offense in the fact that the other man had used only his first name – his former name. They had been well-acquainted enough to go on a first-name basis, once. “That’s all I ever wanted. True death. A final, undisturbed rest.” He looked down at his glass of wine and swirled the liquid around. It took a crimson tinge and thickened, making it look like freshly-harvested blood. Moridin took a sip. It tasted like blood, too. “You don’t know what it was like,” he murmured. “I was only partially sealed in the Bore, Barid Bel. Do you understand what that means?”

Demandred shook his head a fraction. He didn’t look like he wanted to know. Moridin went on regardless. “In the beginning, I was stuck at the edge of the Bore for decades. Then I was released for a few days. I discovered a new world. A world on the brink of death, so moribund that I never thought I’d find human life again when I next stepped out of my prison.”

The blood inside the goblet turned black and solidified. Moridin discarded it indifferently. “But humanity survived, somehow. As centuries went by, less and less time was required for me to be able to walk the earth. I cannot be certain, but I assume that, as the Great Lord’s prison grew weaker, so did my own. I was able to stay out for months, then years, until I had to recuperate. But my time in the Bore…” He hesitated. “I was never asleep. Unlike you, there was no dreamless, timeless slumber for me. I was aware of my surroundings and perfectly lucid the entire time. Can you imagine that?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. No one could possibly imagine.

Demandred remained silent, so Moridin kept talking. “I don’t remember going insane. It must have happened over the course of several decades, a process so slow I never noticed anything different. I cannot even pinpoint the moment when I realised I was mad. It’s been so long… Everything is blurry. Memories fade or intertwine, they blend together until I cannot tell one from the other. I remember laughing at my own insanity on several different occasions, but when? A millennium ago? Last year?” He shrugged. “I’ve been out of the Bore for over thirty years now. I never again felt the need to return there to gather my strength, a certain proof that the seals of the Great Lord’s prison had become brittle enough to break. I knew then that the time had come, and I wept, my friend. Out of sheer relief I wept, though I believed the very ability to shed tears had deserted me long ago.” Sharing in weaknesses was uncommon between Chosen, but at this point, it hardly mattered.

Demandred was still quiet, and he looked uncharacteristically sympathetic. Moridin hoped he wouldn’t act on it, however. That would be a mistake. An awkward one. Eventually, Demandred cleared his throat. “I assume you summoned me here for a reason?”

Moridin smirked. “You left me no chance to talk, accusing me as soon as you arrived.” He waved a hand to fend off Demandred’s protest. “That was quite rude of you,” he added maliciously. Demandred abhorred rudeness and vulgarity, but Moridin didn’t give him an opportunity to defend himself. “I wanted to discuss your plans for the Last Battle, as you must have surmised.” Again, he cut off the other man before he could open his mouth. “I know you are loath to share in your activities, but I _must_ know. Surely you understand.”

Demandred likely did understand, but he still didn’t look happy about it. He was used to being in charge, not to report to a higher authority.

“Be grateful that I summoned you alone,” Moridin said. “We could have had a team meeting instead,” he added with a derisive snigger. He knew perfectly well that Demandred would not let the others know of his plans – which was understandable, but it was past time Moridin had a clear idea of where matters stood in Shara. His spies hadn’t relayed enough information for his taste. There weren’t nearly enough Friends of the Dark in these blasted lands.

Of course, Moridin had no intention of remaining anywhere near the main battlefield during _Tarmon Gai'don_ , which was why he needed to make sure that Demandred had everything well in hand. He would be the official leader of the Shadow’s armies on the front. Moridin’s place lay elsewhere.

“I thought it was evident,” Demandred said crisply. “I will lead the Sharans in the Last Battle. Foot soldiers, light and heavy cavalry, archers, but most importantly, enough channelers to form a full circle.” He appeared quite proud of that fact. Indeed, a full circle led by Demandred would devastate the enemy lines. Moridin doubted that the Light’s puppets would retaliate with a circle of their own; they were too disorganised, too divided.

Demandred was holding back, however, Moridin could tell. “And that artefact you were supposed to recover?” he prompted him nonchalantly.

“I will have it soon,” Demandred replied curtly. He sounded quite frustrated, and more than a little annoyed that Moridin knew about that ploy. His spies had managed to uncover _that_ , at least. That Shendla woman ‘Bao’ associated with was no Friend of the Dark, but Moridin kept a close watch on her. In his opinion, Demandred was entirely too trusting of her, which was quite unlike him. Moridin could only hope she wouldn’t crush Demandred’s efforts at the last moment. Or assist Neya in doing so.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Moridin replied smoothly. That Demandred would recover the artefact wasn’t in question. That the object would be whole, and functional, was. He didn’t say that out loud. He’d bothered the man long enough for one day. He stood up, a clear sign that Demandred was being dismissed. The Chosen took the hint and was already weaving a gateway open when Moridin spoke again. That next sentence was a mistake, a potentially disastrous one, but he couldn’t help himself. “Funny how bothered you are that I had a brief affair with Nessosin, millennia ago, but don’t seem to mind at all that I shared a bed with Neya.”

Demandred’s eyes widened and he paled visibly. Then he turned a dark shade of crimson, fists tightening at his sides. He drew more of _saidin._

Moridin didn’t move. When one couldn’t kill oneself, one had to be imaginative. Unless Demandred used Balefire, however, Moridin would only be brought back – the Great Lord would not let him go so easily. That was partly punishment for impersonating Him, but essentially because Moridin was necessary to the Last Battle. Besides, the Great Lord would take it out on Demandred if Moridin was burned out of the Pattern, and Moridin found no pleasure in that notion.

The True Power surged through him, the Great Lord’s dark energy scorching his insides, _saa_ swarming his vision.


	61. Your screams will break your throat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: torture implied.

Toveine stared at the door, willing herself to remain awake – or conscious, in any case. They had chained her to a wall in a cell that would make the White Tower’s dungeons look comfortable. It stank of decay, as though corpses had been left to rot in a corner somewhere.

She’d been here for days now – five, six, a week? She’d lost count. There was no window to indicate the passage of time.

She’d made a few attempts at breaking through her shield, with no success. Soon she would be too weak to even try; they hadn’t fed her, and she was only allowed one goblet of water per day – or what she assumed was a day. She wondered who was holding her shield. The only Asha’man she’d recognised were Mishraile and Coteren, and she doubted that the latter could manage her shield on his own. By all logic, it had to be Mishraile. Taim wouldn’t stoop as low as to see to such menial tasks, certainly.

Toveine shuddered, for various reasons. The cold, for one, and the humidity. Of course, she knew how to ignore the cold, but it took some conscious effort, and she certainly was not going to waste what little energy she had left on doing that.

The sheer proximity of the Myrddraal was another cause of her shivering. It – they? – had to be just outside her cell.

When she’d spotted the Myrddraal, the day they’d brought her to the basement, Toveine had understood what was going to happen to her. She’d heard rumours of this practice. _Turning_ : a simple, unthreatening word used to describe a vile process.

Taim was going to force her to join the Shadow. He was going to shatter her very soul. He was going to _undo_ her and turn her into something else, something so dark and inhuman and  _wrong_ that she dared not dwell on the thought.

Toveine shuddered, because she knew she wouldn’t leave this place alive.

Logain had tried to send reassurance through the bond, but how could she trust him? The foolish man had gotten them into this mess in the first place! _I have a plan_ , he’d assured her. _It will all be over before you know it._ Toveine scoffed. That bloody oaf. He really was just a pretty face, after all.

Gabrelle was a fool for bedding him – and even more so for loving him. Toveine was almost certain that was the case. She masked the bond whenever the two of them were being…intimate, but Gabrelle couldn’t quite conceal her emotions when she wasn’t paying attention. Toveine sometimes caught her staring at Logain, the adoration plain on her ageless face. As for Logain’s feelings, she wasn’t sure what to make of them. He liked the Brown, yes, and he certainly enjoyed her…company, but Toveine didn’t think he _loved_ her. When it came down to emotions, she could sum up Logain’s in three words: anger, resentment, suspicion. He distrusted everyone; his followers, Gabrelle and herself included. Even the Dragon Reborn. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem to resent Taim any more than he did al’Thor. He felt contempt for the Saldaean, but he didn’t _hate_ him. Not even now.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. What had she come to? She ought to be looking for ways to escape, to free Logain and herself, instead of analysing the bloody man’s emotions. It didn’t help her concentration that she was dizzy from lack of sleep and sustenance.

She wondered how long they would leave her to rot in this bloody cell before they came for her. They clearly wanted to weaken her as much as possible without actually killing her; how long until they were satisfied that she was frail and sickly enough to be Turned?

As it turned out, not much longer from the moment she asked herself that very question.

The Asha’man who unlocked the door was not one she’d ever encountered. Taim must have been busy recruiting while Logain and she were away. He looked Cairhienin: pale, short of stature, clean-shaven. His features were perfectly unremarkable, save for a large mole at the base of his skull. He didn’t say a word to her as he unfastened her chains – with cursed _saidin_ , of course, not with his own hands. Toveine was aware that the taint had been removed from the male half of the Source – she’d experienced Logain’s wonderment first-hand – but she still didn’t trust men who could channel. She never would.

The main problem was that she had no idea what the man was weaving. She hated not knowing. She liked being in control of everything, and being faced with a male channeler was the opposite of being in control, especially when one was chained and shielded and otherwise incapacitated.

Her head swam as she took a precarious step forward, as soon as the chains were gone. Light, she felt dizzy. How was she supposed to come up with an escape plan when she could barely stand?

The Asha’man grabbed her arm and pushed her out of the cell. Toveine tried to remain upright and failed miserably. She stumbled and dropped to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. It took every bit of her usual fortitude to muster enough strength to get back on her feet. The Asha’man gazed at her blankly as she did so. Not so much as a smirk from him. No cruel taunting; not even an impatient sigh.

Peace, was he one of the Turned?

Toveine straightened up, brushing off dust from her already grimy dress, knowing it was useless. It was a reflex, deeply ingrained since her early childhood. She studied the Asha’man more closely. His brown eyes held no expression. He might have been bored, she supposed, or simply tired, but she had a queasy feeling that her initial assumption was the correct one.

Without a word, he gestured for her to move forward. She complied reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. The bond told her that Logain was being held in one of the cells behind her. He appeared to be asleep. Burn the bloody man! She was about to be converted to the Shadow against her will, and the mighty Lord Logain _napped_? In all fairness, Toveine amended, he might have been unconscious rather than asleep. But still.

The Asha’man led her to another room. It was about as large as Logain’s house here at the Black Tower, and there was a single table at its centre. Like in the rest of the basement – dungeons; might as well call a spade a spade – the stench of rot and putrefaction permeated the air. There were strange implements affixed to the walls, which glowed with a dull white light. It was not enough to illuminate the entire room, but Toveine saw more than she wanted. Her eyes fell on stains that looked suspiciously like dried blood. They randomly bedecked the table and the ground beneath it.

As soon as she decided not to focus too closely on the smudges, Toveine realised that she was surrounded. Myrddraal sprang out of the shadows. She did a quick count: thirteen.

It was one thing to have a strong suspicion that something terrible was about to happen to oneself, and quite another to have that fear confirmed in the worst possible way. The Fetches drew on her sudden terror, which she’d attempted to keep concealed, even from herself, until then. They magnified it thousandfold.

Despite decades of conscientious training at the White Tower, where she’d learned to school her emotions to the point of complete detachment, Toveine turned on her heels and tried to run, but she hit a wall of living flesh. Mishraile held out a hand reflexively to stabilise her, but she pushed him away in revulsion. “Don’t touch me,” she croaked. Her mouth was dry as dust. She considered moving past him, but saw that more men were filing in behind the youthful Asha’man. She didn’t have to count them to know there were thirteen.

Taim was one of them. His dark eyes regarded her with pity.

Toveine felt faint; her knees wobbled and she slumped to the floor. Strong hands carried her a short distance and laid her on something solid, none too gently. The impact was enough for her to regain full consciousness. She didn’t struggle; she was bound, with what she assumed were threads of _saidin_ -weaved Air.

The Asha’man assembled on one side of the table, to Toveine’s left, while the Myrddraal gathered to her right. The air in the room became heavier, darker. _Oppressing, suffocating_. Toveine sought Taim’s eyes, not even embarrassed at this point by the tears that rolled down her cheeks or the obvious tremor in her voice. “Please,” she murmured. “I beg you, Taim, please-”

His face was utterly impassive, his gaze implacable. “It will be easier for everyone if you don’t fight it,” he murmured.

It took Toveine a long time to realise that the screams that echoed in the dingy room were her own.

* * *

Logain’s mind was flitting between consciousness and unconsciousness. One moment he was painfully aware of the chains that pinned him to the ground, the next he was drifting toward a semi-comatose state. He had nightmares, worse than usual. Could this be just another bad dream?

A sharp tug from the bond. _Toveine_.

His eyes sprang open. Toveine was moving – or being moved.

He grimaced as he tried to stretch. They could have at least chained him in a comfortable position, burn them. How long had he been here? Days, certainly. Perhaps as long as a week. He focused on the bond – the one he shared with Gabrelle this time. She was asleep. Was it night? He had no way of knowing.

Light, he was starving. Quite literally. Taim hadn’t bothered to feed him, not once since Logain was captured. Was the man hoping to render him more susceptible to…Turning? Logain remembered his encounter with Ishamael, two years ago. He had mentioned the process, but Logain hadn’t believed him. He’d dismissed it as a bluff on the deranged Forsaken’s part. He refused to believe it could be achieved. Dedicating one’s soul to the Shadow had to be a conscious decision; surely it couldn’t be forced upon anyone. Logain served the Light, and he would die before he was brought to the Shadow. Nothing Taim did could change that.

Toveine was in trouble, that much was certain. She was terrified, and fear was not an emotion Logain would normally associate with the Red. He tested the chains for the umpteenth time, then tested the shield that kept _saidin_ at bay, in vain. He groaned in frustration, but it turned into a grimace as agony washed over him.

_Toveine!_ he yelled in his head, as though she could hear him through the bond. She was so close, they might as well be hurting Logain directly. Though he knew the pain wasn’t really his, it echoed in his body. Toveine’s screams resonated within the basement as they did within his very soul.

Logain did his best to send strength and courage throughout the bond. _Don’t give in. I have faith in you. Don’t let the bastards grind you down._ She was the most stubborn woman Logain had ever known; surely she could resist Taim’s pathetic attempt to-

The bond went still.

* * *

Gabrelle started awake, feeling disoriented. Light, what a horrible nightmare…

Not for the first time, she’d dreamed that Logain was being tortured. Flayed alive, this time. His persecutor was always the same person: Mazrim Taim.

A shiver travelled down the length of her spine. Something was wrong, and it had nothing to do with her dream. She sought Logain through the bond they shared, which was made difficult with the distance.

He was in pain; she hadn’t been imagining it. For a moment, her mind was entirely focused on the agony Logain seemed to be suffering. Everything else receded.

She couldn’t say how long it lasted. It could have been a minute or an hour, and she imagined it must have felt even longer to Logain. What was going on? What was Taim doing to him? Was he torturing him for the sake of it? He had to be. Logain didn’t know anything that Taim didn’t; torturing him for information would be a waste of time and energy.

Gabrelle wanted to do something, anything, but Logain had strictly forbidden it and, because of their tweaked bond, she had no choice but to obey. _Do not, under any circumstances, come to the Black Tower without my express permission._ _Don’t let any of the men follow me. Don’t call on anyone I wouldn’t trust, and especially not al’Thor, if anything goes wrong._ Try as she might, she couldn’t find a loophole. In any case, Logain didn’t trust anyone, so her options were scarce, not to say inexistent. _I will summon you when Taim’s been dealt with._ That had been five days ago. She hadn’t heard anything from him since – except through the bond, but none of what she’d felt boded well.

* * *

Atal couldn’t keep it up a moment longer. He broke the line of assembled Asha’man, which earned him a dozen irritated, grumbled curses, as well as blood-curling hisses from the Fetches, and he ran outside the room. He retched in a corner, unable to take another step, and fell heavily to his knees. His face and hands felt clammy. His head ached from all the screaming. His heart was pounding.

Turning the Red witch hadn’t posed much of a problem. It had been a matter of minutes before the light in her eyes died. Toveine wasn’t dead, exactly, but the part of her that served the Light had been extinguished, leaving only a husk of the person she used to be. It served her well, as far as Atal was concerned. She’d dedicated her life to gentling men who could channel, effectively killing them in the process. Atal and his colleagues had simply returned the favour.

Turning Logain, on the other hand… That was something else entirely.

The task of Turning men was rendered extremely complex by the fact that only male channelers were presently available to assist the Myrddraal. Logain wasn’t the first man they’d been working on, but he certainly was the most challenging. Atal had never seen anything quite like it. He fought them with every fibre of his being, with every ounce of strength he possessed.

They couldn’t work the men too long. The pain was – judging from the victims’ ear-piercing wails and shrieks – excruciating; such prolonged agony could drive a person insane or kill them, if kept up for more than a few minutes at a time, especially when said people were already weakened. They’d accidentally killed three young Soldiers in the early days.

It typically took them at least two sessions to successfully Turn a man to the Shadow. Three was the longest one of them had resisted. The only one who’d withstood four had died. M’Hael always let a week go by between sessions, so the body could partly recover – it was just enough to keep them alive, really.

This was Logain’s first session, but Atal had a feeling that it would take a while to Turn him.

He wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly felt sick. He despised the man and everything he represented – he was arrogant, condescending, and a bloody nobleman at that. Everything had always been handed to him on a silver platter. The only reason he had followers, as far as Atal could divine, was because someone had Healed him. They worshipped him for something he wasn’t even responsible for.

To be fair, Atal had felt just as bad Turning the other men. They hadn’t done anything to deserve this – they were simply the most convenient victims.

“Mishraile.” The M’Hael’s voice floated to him, slowly bringing him out of his spell of dizziness. A strong hand landed on his shoulder.

Atal blinked and bit his lower lip hard, trying to regain his senses. He tasted blood. He glanced up gingerly. “Sorry,” he muttered. Light, but this was humiliating! That the M’Hael should witness such weakness from him… “Must be something I ate,” he mumbled. Sniggers from his fellow Asha’man who, Atal noticed, had formed a circle around him.

Coteren was leering openly. “Can’t bear to see Logain hurt, lad? You in love with him, too? That fairy of a Dedicated ain’t enough for you?”

There were more jeers from the others, but they were cut short when Coteren collapsed to the ground in a heap, knocked-out cold by a sharp thread of intertwined Air and Fire. “Everyone out,” M’Hael snapped. “Take him with you,” he added with a disdainful grimace directed at Coteren’s limp body.

Atal heaved himself up as the others departed quickly. He had to lean against the wall to hold himself upright. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment as the M’Hael studied him critically. “No more Turning for you, Asha’man,” he declared eventually. He sighed heavily. “I would have kept you out of this entirely from the beginning, but with Moridin borrowing my men every other day…” He shook his head firmly. “Logain’s unconscious. Help me get him back to his cell, will you?”

“May I be of assistance, Master?”

Atal glanced past the M’Hael at Toveine, who stood perfectly still, just a few paces away. He hadn’t even noticed her. The M’Hael flicked his hand dismissively. “No need. Just stay there and await my orders.”

Toveine bowed her head. “As you command, so I obey.” Without another word, she resumed her motionless vigil.

Atal swallowed hard. Seeing her like this was…uncanny. Creepy, really.

He couldn’t quite picture Logain bowing and scraping like that, but it would happen, sooner or later. With a resigned sigh, he followed the M’Hael to the Turning chamber.

* * *

M’Hael dismissed Mishraile once Logain was securely bound. Toveine could take up his shield for the time being. It seemed unduly cruel to have Logain shielded by his own Warder – if she could be called that – but Mishraile really needed to rest, and M’Hael had more important things to see to. At least the former Aes Sedai could be useful. He wasn’t sure what to do with her now that she was under his command.

Moridin had explained that he needed thirteen women to assist the Myrddraal. A single woman working with a dozen men would be ineffective – they couldn’t even link. Where M’Hael was supposed to find a dozen more Aes Sedai, he had no idea, especially now that Logain had dispatched his followers and their bonded Aes Sedai to Illian and Arad Doman, but Moridin didn’t seem to care. It wasn’t his problem. He expected results, not excuses.

Initially, M’Hael had hoped that he could bargain with the Forsaken. If only he could see Neya, make certain she was alive and well, then he would redouble his efforts. If Moridin sent Neya back, M’Hael would go to the White Tower and capture a dozen Aes Sedai himself.

Except that Moridin knew that Neya and he were bonded.

M’Hael had no idea how the Forsaken knew, but that meant he had no leverage – not unless he decided to sever the bond, which he certainly wouldn’t do. No matter how…occupied Neya might be at the moment, with Light knew whom, M’Hael still wanted her back. Now more than ever, in fact. Even if it meant that she would know what he’s been up to for the past few weeks.

In the meantime, he had nothing, no excuses for stalling. That was why he’d placed all his hopes on Logain in the first place.

And, despite the dire situation he found himself in, M’Hael had to admit that Logain was holding his own. Oh, he’d screamed, of course – they all did – but the amount or intensity of the victims’ howls was not necessarily an indication of how they were faring. The first Soldier they’d lost to the process had survived four sessions, and his cries had outmatched Toveine’s and Logain’s combined. Screaming was really just a way to exteriorise the pain – and the terror, and the horror. It had no influence on a person’s will or fortitude, and therefore on their capacity to resist Turning.

He was thankful to Mishraile for cutting this session short. How he hated this! He would rather delegate the task to any other Asha’man, but he had to be there. He was the strongest among them, and Moridin would surely find out if he shirked his duties. Hopefully, Logain would hold on until rescue came. There had to be a rescue party somewhere, right? Logain couldn’t have been _that_ confident in his triumph over M’Hael. He couldn’t have been that bloody _stupid_.

But what in the Pit of Doom were they waiting for? Gabrelle had to know that something was wrong. Five days had already gone by since Logain was captured, and M’Hael dared not leave more than a week between sessions – it would make Moridin suspicious. In seven days, Logain would have to go through it all again.

How many sessions could the bloody insufferable man endure?


	62. A small person can cast a very large shadow

Bao stood on the balcony, in the middle of the night, arms resting on the guardrail. The moon was no more than a narrow crescent among the myriad stars. He rather enjoyed the view from this room; the royal gardens were quite a sight at this time of year. He could not understand why the Sh’botay had opted for a bedchamber with a view of the main square – though perhaps it had not been his choice. The Ayyad had controlled every single aspect of the man’s life, from the clothes he wore to the woman who shared his bed. The constant noise erupting from the square during the day, and well into the night, had been Bao’s sole reason for not appropriating the royal suite after finally subduing the Ayyad.

He glanced over his shoulder. Neya was soundly asleep. She snored lightly, as usual, but that was not the reason behind Bao’s current sleeplessness. His latest encounter with Moridin was.

Bao should not have reacted so…impulsively, he realised that now. He did not think he would have actually done anything to harm the other man but, all the same, he was almost grateful that Moridin had intervened. The _Nae’blis_ had shielded him with the True Power and thrown him across the room for good measure, without causing any real damage. Then he had lectured Bao at great length, sounding so pedantic and looking so professorial that for a painful moment Bao was strongly reminded of Elan. Peaceable, sensible Elan. The supportive, socially awkward mentor he had so appreciated. The person he used to call a friend, before everything went to hell.

To be honest, the sudden, snide remark about Neya had taken him completely by surprise. Would Moridin carelessly let something like that slip? No, it had obviously been intentional. But why would he purposefully goad Bao? To test him, to see what he would do, how he would react? It was the only possible explanation. Moridin wanted to know how much he cared about Neya - wanted to know _if_ he cared. And Bao had obligingly risen to the bait.

Bao was not certain why he had reacted as he had – he did not think of himself as a jealous man – but even now he had trouble digesting the news. Although Neya _did_ have a history of sleeping with practically everyone she’d encountered over the past year – Asmodean and Taim, some random Aiel Friend of the Dark – so it should not have come as a surprise.

But Bao had never stopped to consider that there might be a reason for Neya’s…romantic spree. Indeed, much like Lews Therin – and his present incarnation – having multiple partners seemed to be a trait shared by _ta’veren_. Ilyena Sunhair may have been the love of Lews Therin’s life, but that never stopped him from going after several other women. At any point of his life, the Dragon had had numerous mistresses, and al’Thor reportedly had three lovers at present.

To be fair to Neya, however, she never had more than one partner at a given time. Although it would have been hypocritical of him to resent her for that, Bao realised.

He had not had sex with anyone else, just as he had promised her. It had only been a few days, but he did not feel the need to do so. Besides, Neya was now spending a lot more time here, in the palace. She slept with him every night.

It was quite pleasant.

Less pleasant were the _other_ facts that Moridin had shared with him three days past.

Blast the man! Would it have killed him to report this earlier? It contradicted everything Bao held true, everything Shendla had told him about Neya. Bao simply could not imagine either woman betraying him.

Moridin claimed that Neya was not only _ta’veren_ , but that she was also part of the Prophecies – not the Sharans’ Prophecies of the Wyld, nor the Karaethon Cycle, but the Prophecies of the Shadow, as they were commonly named. This the _Nae’blis_ had discovered over two years ago. The Finn had apparently led him straight to her.

Neya’s exact role was frustratingly unclear, however. Or rather, frustratingly _unpredictable_. Parts of the Prophecies asserted that she could become a valuable asset to the Shadow. That, at least, fitted Shendla’s visions – and Bao’s calculations. In other passages, Neya was considered as the Shadow’s fiercest adversary.

In other words, it made no bloody sense. Prophecies rarely did, admittedly, but…

Moridin believed it to mean that Neya’s ultimate choice – whether to serve the Shadow or the Light – was completely up to her, and would depend on a large variety of elements until the very last possible moment. The _Nae’blis_ thought that, because of her _ta’veren_ nature, Neya could not be swayed or otherwise forced to make one choice or the other. The decision was hers, and hers only.

In other words, all Bao could do was hope that Neya would choose _him_ , instead of some foolish notion that she could somehow prevent the inevitable from happening. Because once Bao finally laid his hands on _D’jedt_ , there would be nothing anybody could do to stop him.

For the first time, the _Nae’blis_ had also issued a proper command on the matter of his reincarnation: Bao was not to reveal Moridin's identity to Neya. Never, under no circumstances. If Moridin deemed useful to do so, he would see to it himself. Bao had no problem with that. He would rather Neya never found out. He already had Taim to worry about; he did not need another former flame to draw her attention or distract her. That was also why he wanted Asmodean dead – or rather, one of the various reasons why he wanted the craven renegade dead.

Despite Moridin's words of warning, Bao was not particularly worried, however. All he had to do was make certain that Neya stayed away from the Last Battle. If she was not there, on the battlefield, surely she could not influence the outcome in any way. Just to be safe, Bao would try to convert her, not to the Shadow, necessarily, but to his perspective, to his belief that a better world would emerge from the ashes of this one. She had to have faith in him, to trust him entirely, to _want_ him to triumph. She had to become his greatest ally.

Bao’s advantage over Neya was that she was clueless as to her own critical role in all of this. If he had his way, she would have no role at all, save to take care of things here in Shara until Bao returned, victorious. After _T_ _armon Gai’don_ , none of it would matter. Neya would be like any other young woman. Bao vaguely wondered if he would still feel so strongly for her after that. After all, it was quite possible that her _ta'veren_ nature had drawn him to her, as it had her former lovers. But if he still loved...

Loved? Bao scowled into the silent night. The word had just popped up inside his mind, unbidden.

Perhaps he did love her. He certainly cared for her more than he had ever cared for anyone else in his life.

And he was improbably excited at the idea of becoming a father, he had to admit. It startled him, how easily he had chosen to disregard the fact that the baby was not his.

But it was Neya's, and Neya belonged to him.

* * *

Neya awoke at dawn. Bao was lying on his flank, facing her, a hand on her abdomen. His eyes opened when he heard her breathing change. The scar on his nose was fully healed, but still visible.

A few days ago, he had come back from Light knew where with his hair in disarray and a glum look on his face. He wouldn’t say what had happened, exactly, and Neya hadn’t pressed him. He clearly hadn’t been in the mood for questioning. All she’d received for an answer was that he’d been summoned by another Chosen, someone named Moridin, who was apparently the _Nae’blis_ – the leader of the Chosen. How a man she’d never even heard of had come to attain the highest position imaginable was beyond her and, once again, Bao had provided no useful information. The Dark One really was a chaotic entity. Still, it appeared that this Moridin was quite formidable; he had to be, for Bao to even use that word.

"I must leave soon," Bao said quietly, bringing her out of her contemplation.

Neya fidgeted, smoothing the silky sheets needlessly. "Are you sure I shouldn't be coming with you?” she asked for the thousandth time. "You don't know who or what the Guardian is. I understand you must face it alone, but you might need a Healer afterward. You can be sure that if you come out of _Rai'lair_ hurt and weakened, the Ayyad will jump on the opportunity to do away with you."

"They cannot afford to kill me now. If – when – I come out of the Hearttomb, I will be the Wyld. No one will be able to stop me then," he murmured. She had asked him what he hoped to find there, besides this fancy new title. Sakarnen – or _D'jedt_ , as it was known during the Age of Legends – was a _sa'angreal_ designed to channel _saidin_. Bao claimed that it was more powerful than _Callandor_ itself. Once he had a hold on the Sceptre, and provided that he could bring the Ayyad to form a full circle, he would be invincible – or the next thing to it.

As the day when he would depart for _Rai'lair_ approached, Bao had taken to mutter and rant about Lews Therin more and more often. He was truly obsessed with the other man. Neya didn't understand how Shendla could believe that he would end up saving the world somehow.

"I will be fine," Bao went on, almost reassuringly. He had spent most of his time practicing the sword, mostly with Torn – Neya had been forbidden to even lift a sword by her midwife, though she suspected Bao had had a hand in this – and he had been fasting for days. He meditated whenever he wasn't doing anything else. There was absolutely no indication as to the nature of the Guardian in the Prophecies. It seemed unlikely that anything – or anyone – might have survived this long, living in a cave, but many young men and women had died in an attempt to fulfil the Prophecies. Neya would feel a lot better if Bao would let her accompany them. Most everyone would be going with him, except for the female Ayyad, although he seemed certain that they would follow at some point, regardless of his orders. He had told them to keep an eye on matters of state while he was gone, and he expected Neya to keep an eye on _them_.

"When I return, I will be formally acknowledged as the Wyld and crowned king," Bao continued. "We will be ready for the Last Battle. I do not think it will be long now. A few months, maybe weeks. The Pattern is unravelling." There had been other strange occurrences in the last few days. While some were happy coincidences, others had rather dire consequences. It sounded like the sort of events that took place when Rand was about. Maybe the Dragon Reborn's _ta'veren_ nature was getting stronger as the end drew nearer, strong enough to reach even here. Or maybe Bao himself was _ta'veren_. Neya had reflected a lot upon that lately. It would make sense; after all, his campaign to take over Shara had been full of odd circumstances. Maybe, as Lews Therin – Rand – had been chosen to be the Light's champion, Bao was meant to be the Shadow's champion. It would be fitting. The two men had always been rivals. At least, that was how Demandred saw it. Neya didn't think Lews Therin had ever considered Barid Bel Medar as a rival, but rather as a friend against whom he could compete amiably. The Dragon had probably never been aware of Barid Bel's jealousy and increasing scorn until it was too late. How different everything might have turned out if he had paid more attention to his friend's feelings.

"I must go," Bao murmured.

Neya turned to face him, looking into his dark green eyes. His hand followed her movement to remain on her belly. It always did. He seemed…fascinated by her pregnancy, as though he’d never seen a pregnant woman before. She didn’t even have a bump yet. "Be careful. I would hate to be the one to tell that Moridin person that you died fighting some ancient immortal creature in a gloomy cave for an artefact that might not even be there."

"It will be there. It has to be." His tone implied that if the remaining part of Sakarnen was in fact not there, someone, or rather a large part of the population, would suffer for it. "And I am always careful," he added after a pause.

"Be extra careful then." Neya meant it as a jest, but Bao took it quite seriously. He nodded briefly before extracting himself from the bed. She took a particular care to admire the view as he dressed himself, since he would be gone at least two weeks, maybe more. She wasn't sure why he couldn't simply open a gateway near the entrance of the Hearttomb; something to do with the Prophecies, apparently. Shendla said the journey to the River of Souls was part of achieving his transformation as the Wyld. Neya had assumed Bao would dismiss that as a waste of time, but he listened to Shendla and followed her advice as if she had written the bloody Prophecies herself. Neya got out of the bed and walked up to him, placing her hands on his chest. He was wearing a plain cotton shirt. She could feel the hard muscles underneath the material. "Make sure to bring back everyone else in one piece as well." She meant the Freed and male Ayyad. The next few weeks were sure to be lonely with all of them gone. At least Nyamukuta would be keeping her company. She had become quite fond of the mousy midwife. Despite her apparent shyness, she had a sharp wit.

"I will." It always amazed her, the way every word he spoke seemed to be an unbreakable promise. He could be so intense, so earnest. And he was so beautiful. Light, how could anyone in their right mind have thought Lews Therin to be better-looking? He moved closer until he loomed over her then leaned forward to kiss her softly, placing his hands around her waist. She was surprised at first; he never did that. _And no wonder_ , she thought amusedly, _it must really strain his neck to bend down this low_. Slowly, he let go of her. "Take care," he whispered before turning around. She watched him leave, feeling sullen. She couldn't wait for all of this to be over.

As the door closed, she put a hand on her belly, as she often did these days, at least as often as Bao did. She had always laughed at pregnant women who did that, but she found it comforting, somehow. A few days ago, she had finally asked Bao why he had decided to involve himself with the baby at all. Apparently, Shendla had never mentioned it, so why was he so determined to look after it as if it were his own? "In four hundred years," Neya had told him, "you've never had a child, nor wanted one, if what I've heard from the others is true. Why are you doing this now? Is it just because of me, because I'm so important to your…quest? Do you think the baby is important too, somehow?"

Bao was certainly being very careful. Even in bed. He was not roughing it up as he had the first time. He could be surprisingly gentle.

Of course, everyone was treating Neya as though she was made of porcelain. She had, however, not expected it from Bao. It was annoying, and yet… She found it endearing, coming from him.

"I do not know whether it is important or not, but that is irrelevant." Neya wasn't entirely convinced of that, but she’d said nothing. "I never felt the urge to have children before, but now…" Bao had appeared oddly hesitant. "Now it seems I _cannot_ have children, and you never miss anything so much as when you are denied it."

He had told her before about his theory that none of the Forsaken could have children. "But how can you be so sure about that? Did you _try_ to have one?"

"No. The idea never once crossed my mind since I turned to the Shadow. And rarely before that." He was silent for a long time. "I never did anything to prevent it, however, and I have been quite..." He'd cut off abruptly, as if realising - Neya's face might have given him a clue - that he did  _not_ want to finish that sentence.

He'd cleared his throat. "I suppose it _is_ all because of you," he’d admitted eventually.

That was all the answer she’d received. It was clear that he wouldn't say anything else on the matter, and she knew better than to press him. As long as he did right by them – provided they both lived long enough to see the child born – she wasn't going to complain.


	63. Everything not saved will be lost

Atal crawled a few paces behind the M’Hael, who was urging him forward, despite the heat and Atal’s impending sense of dread. Shadowy figures, moaning and wailing, came out of the gloom and grabbed at him. He knew he ought to turn back, to run away, but he couldn’t abandon the M’Hael to this infernal place, and Taim insisted that they should move on. He looked quite at ease, unlike Atal, whose heart was racing, fear rendering him near-hysterical. They finally reached their destination, a great burning lake of fire. Atal closed his eyes, terror overwhelming him, but little good did it do him. The Voice penetrated his mind, and it was deafening. Blood poured out of his ears, and Atal fell to his knees.

He didn’t belong here. Taim had brought him to Shayol Ghul to die. Atal was meant to be sacrificed to the Great Lord of the Dark.

A pounding headache brought him out of his nightmarish, feverish sleep. He was drenched in sour-smelling sweat. He’d never been anywhere near the Pit of Doom, of course, but the dreams were always disturbingly vivid and realistic.

Bright sunlight filtered through the window. How long had he been asleep? He tried to sit up, but his effort was rewarded with nausea and dizziness. He fell back against his pillow, and only then noticed that Trygg had fallen asleep on a chair beside the bed. That was odd. Had Atal’s nightmare caused him to chase his lover out of the bed? It seemed unlikely. Trygg usually shook him awake when his dreams became too…intense.

The blasted headache pulsed. It felt like his eyes were trying to escape their orbits, like his brain had suddenly become too large for his head and was about to explode. Atal involuntarily grunted in pain. The sound awoke Trygg.

Atal attempted a wan smile to greet his lover, but Trygg didn’t return it. He looked quite cross, which was unlike him. The man was usually placid. Trygg did his best to conceal his anger, though his feelings were transparent to Atal – they would be to everyone, really. “How are you feeling?” he asked gruffly.

“Terrible,” Atal admitted. Only then did he wonder _why_ he was feeling that way. “What happened?”

“Taim did this to you,” Trygg replied with indignation. “He could have killed you!” he exclaimed. “Davos spent all night trying to Heal you…” He cut off, too angry to speak. Davos was a Dedicated, and fairly apt at Healing. “I had to _smuggle_ him here. Taim wouldn’t let anyone near you. I had to wait until his meeting with the Aes Sedai was over to even bring you here.”

It all came back to Atal now. The witches and their preposterous demands that Taim allow them to bond several Asha’man, in retribution for the Aes Sedai who’d been bonded against their will by Logain and his bunch. Atal had felt so offended by the very idea that he may have spoken out of turn. And then…darkness, and dreams. The M’Hael must have used that weave he reserved for the most severe cases of disobedience. If it wasn’t Healed quickly, it could cause damage to the brain, or even kill. Taim had never used it on Atal before, however – and rarely on anyone else.

“Well, I’m fine now, aren't I?” Atal attempted another smile, to show the other man it was all behind them and forgotten already. There was no use dwelling on it. Taim’s moodiness had gotten worse in recent weeks. He was often unnecessarily snappish, and then he would sometimes laugh at nothing in particular. It didn’t make any sense to Atal. _Saidin_ had been cleansed; the M’Hael’s mental health should have been improving – or at least stabilising – instead of getting worse.

Ever since he’d received confirmation that Taim was a Dreadlord, put in charge of the Black Tower by one of the Forsaken – through al’Thor, but the result was the same – Atal had been rationalising. Taim couldn’t possibly be _willingly_ doing this. He wasn’t evil. He was a good person, who genuinely cared about the men placed under his responsibility. And then it had all clicked together: Taim had only begun actively recruiting Dreadlords _after_ Neya disappeared.

It seemed obvious now. The poor woman was being held hostage by the Forsaken, and Taim had to comply to their every whim if he wanted her to live.

Taim had been despondent and cantankerous after she was taken. That, Atal could understand. But for weeks now, the M’Hael had been behaving like a lunatic, as if something had snapped inside him and completely fractured his mind. Atal imagined the worst: Neya was dead, and Taim knew it. And he’d decided that, at this point, there was no use going back to the Light. The man had nothing to live for, no one to remain _sane_ for. Because of this, Atal believed that his sudden plunge into madness may be unrelated to the effects of the taint. After all, regular people went mad all the time – whether from grief or love or despair.

Trygg was shaking his head, as if reading Atal’s thoughts. “He’ll be the death of you,” he muttered. “He’ll kill us all.”

“Don’t be like that,” Atal chided him. “It’s not his fault.” Whatever Taim did, Atal held the Forsaken responsible.

“Will you stop defending him?” Trygg snarled. “You know exactly what he is. And perhaps you’re right, perhaps Neya’s life is at stake. But that doesn’t give him the right to treat you like this.” His cheeks burned a bright crimson. Atal had never seen him so angry.

“You’re just jealous,” Atal grumbled.

That was the wrong thing to say. “Of course I bloody well am! You spend your days watching over him, and most of your nights. I barely even see you. And this is how he shows appreciation for everything you do? I know how you feel about him,” he went on. “Don’t deny it. But you must realise that your affections are wasted on the man, burn you! Even if he was thus inclined, he doesn’t _deserve_ you, Atal.”

This was ridiculous. Sure, Atal had had a bit of a crush on Taim when he first arrived at the Tower. But Taim had quickly put an end to that, and then Atal had met Trygg, and he’d never considered Taim _that_ way again. Especially after Neya claimed his heart for herself.

Maybe Atal had entertained the possibility for a while, after Neya disappeared. But then the girls had barged into his life, and everything had changed.

“It’s not like that,” Atal said. “He _needs_ me, Trygg. I’m the only one who cares what happens to him. Don’t you see? The others want what he has, they want to _be_ him. They want power. They follow him meekly because he can give it to them, because he has the Forsaken on his side, but they’d turn against him without a second’s hesitation if someone else offered it to them. I don’t care about power.” Well, certainly he’d considered the opportunity. Power was a good thing to have. But the main interest in becoming a Dreadlord had resided in the fact that male channelers who sold their souls to the Dark One didn’t suffer from the taint – or so the rumour went. In any case, the taint was gone now, and Atal had quickly reconsidered. Was it really worth it, to forsake the Light for promises of everlasting life and endless power? The Father of Lies was deceitful. Would he really make good on his promises, if he triumphed over the Light? Even Taim appeared doubtful, although he hadn’t shared his opinion on the matter with Atal or his other followers.

Atal’s opinion was that Taim no longer cared what happened to him. Perhaps his diseased mind longed for death.

Which was precisely why Atal had to look after him. Maybe it wasn’t his responsibility, but who would do it, if not him? He owed Taim as much. Atal had had nothing when he’d arrived at the Tower. His only possessions had been the clothes on his back. Taim had given him a new chance at life, and Atal intended to return the favour.

“I love you, you lumbering oaf,” Atal went on. He’d never said _that_ out loud before, but he knew it was true the moment he said it. “I’m only doing my duty. I’m doing what’s _right_.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Trygg whispered.

Atal frowned. “What are you saying?” He’d just told the man that he loved him! Surely he couldn’t mean…

Trygg stood heavily and walked to the door. “I think you know,” he replied sadly. He turned the knob. “I’ll move to a different house, or go to the barracks for a while.” He appeared to hesitate for a moment. “I’ll take the girls with me,” he added eventually. “They don’t need that sort of influence. They’ve been through enough as it is. If they were to lose you, too…” He didn’t finish. Before Atal could find his voice, Trygg opened the door and closed it firmly behind him.

Atal stared at it incredulously for a minute. What had just happened?

In the space of a few hours, Atal had lost his lover, Taim’s recognition – or so it seemed – and his informal guardianship over Neya’s girls. And his head was still killing him. Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

He had to get out of bed, he decided. There was no use moping around. He had to apologise to the M’Hael for his interruption during the meeting with the Aes Sedai. Then he would find Trygg and they would talk this through. The man would see reason. When Atal’s mind cleared somewhat, he’ll be able to come up with the right arguments.

Getting out of bed proved more difficult than he’d imagined. Each time he tried, a wave of nausea engulfed him, and he nearly sprawled to the floor. Just when he’d finally managed to stand upright, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out hopefully. It had to be Trygg, back to apologise for his behaviour.

It was Davos. “Trygg asked me to Heal you,” he announced without preamble, his face grim.

“I thought you already had,” Atal said.

“I did what I could, but I’m not Neya,” he said wistfully. “Let me take another look.” He didn’t wait for Atal’s permission. He felt Davos seize _saidin_ , but he had no idea what the other man was doing. Healing was not his cup of tea.

After half an hour, Davos finally allowed him to take a few careful steps. “Still wobbly,” the man muttered glumly. “But I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.” He levelled his gaze with Atal’s. “You tell your _friend_ that my debt has been paid, now. No more bullying me into going anywhere near _you_.” He said that last word as one might say _cockroach_ or _venereal disease_.

Of course. Davos was one of Logain’s cronies. Atal briefly wondered what favour Trygg had done him, but decided it didn’t matter. Davos didn’t wait around for Atal’s assent, in any case. He slammed the door behind him.

Atal washed quickly and donned some fresh clothes before setting out for the palace. He felt better already – he felt clean, and his headache had dulled down to a faint throb. He’d always possessed an optimistic nature. Everything would be fine.

Coteren was guarding the main entrance. He sneered when he caught sight of Atal.

He couldn’t stand the older man. He was crass, vulgar. He was always sweaty and greasy. He wasn’t exactly bright, either. A perfect example of half of Taim’s minions; the other half was cunningly cruel, ambitious and power-hungry. Atal considered himself an exception. “How’s the head?” Coteren asked with a simian leer.

Atal didn’t deign answer. Coteren wasn’t worth his time. “Is the M’Hael available?” he demanded.

Coteren shrugged. “How would I know? I’m just keeping watch.”

Atal rolled his eyes and gestured for the man to step aside, which Coteren did, though with bad grace.

He wound his way up the spiral staircase that led to Taim’s study. If Taim was here, that’s where Atal would find him. Probably with a glass of wine close at hand. He knocked on the door thrice, in rapid succession. He always knocked like that, so Taim would know it was him. There was no reply.

He hesitated. The M’Hael might have stepped out through a gateway to attend a matter outside the Tower. Or he might be lying dead on the floor. Coteren wasn't much of a sentry. Atal opened the door and peeked inside cautiously.

Taim was seated in his chair by the window, apparently asleep. He started awake when Atal walked in, embracing the Source and preparing a deadly weave of Fire and Air – not even something to bound a potential intruder; the man was ready to kill. He relaxed slightly when he realised who’d just stepped in, but Atal noticed that he didn’t let go of _saidin_ immediately.

“You’re alive,” Taim said evenly. “Good. I want you to oversee the bonding operation. You’ll act as my intermediary with the Aes Sedai.”

Atal was too stunned to speak. Taim couldn’t possibly have agreed to the witches’ demands…could he?

“Make sure they remember what I told them: they can’t bond the Asha’man. Soldiers and Dedicated only. And they must be willing, not bullied into it. I’m quite familiar with their methods, but I’ll have none of that here,” he said with a grimace. Without sparing a glance to Atal, Taim stood not-quite-gracefully and poured himself a glass of wine.

Atal felt a wave of nausea, but he did his best to remain outwardly cool. He couldn’t afford to be whacked a second time – another blow, so soon after the first, would kill him for certain. He tried to consider the matter reasonably, to see things from the M’Hael perspective. It made sense, now that he gave it some serious thought. Taim was killing two birds with one stone: he wasn’t unnecessarily attracting al’Thor’s attention by massacring a party of peaceful-appearing Aes Sedai, and he was giving them _Logain’s_ men as repayment for the witches who’d been bonded against their will.

And, of course, they still needed twelve more women to speed up the Turning procedure. Six would be a good start.

Still, Atal felt uneasy. The Aes Sedai made his skin crawl, even now, which was ridiculous: even without the Dragon’s amnesty, the Red Ajah no longer had any reason to gentle male channelers. The taint was gone. They didn’t represent a danger – well, they did, but for different reasons. But Aes Sedai were what they were, and always would be: deceitful, manipulative hags, who believed themselves the Creator made flesh.

But they were in enemy territory now, and vastly outnumbered. Besides, Taim must have a dozen men reporting to him every time any of the Aes Sedai so much as sneezed. They had walked straight into the lion’s den. They were quite brave, Atal would give them that, but they would meet their end at the Black Tower, one way or another.

“As you command, M’Hael,” he said. He was about to leave when Taim spoke again.

“Leave Trygg be,” he said softly. “Let him go. It’s safer for him. For them.”

Atal made no reply. How did the man even know about…

“I should have advised you to join Logain a long time ago, but it’s too late now. Logain is doomed. There’s nothing I can do for him. He’s survived two sessions, but he’ll give in eventually. They all do,” the M’Hael said sadly. “If he’d planned his coup a little better, if he’d come prepared... He underestimated me. Well, it’s all Moridin’s fault, really. If the bloody Forsaken hadn’t been there…”

Atal shuddered. To speak of the _Nae’blis_ out loud in such a fashion could have dire consequences, if the words fell in the wrong ear. Taim was clearly raving. And had he actually _wanted_ Logain to take over the Tower?

“Perhaps things will change, with the Aes Sedai here. That’s why I allowed them to remain and proceed with the bonding,” the M’Hael explained candidly. Atal could only stare in horror. Had he gone utterly mad? Light, he wished Neya were here. She would know what to do. Then he realised that, if Neya’d been here, none of this would have happened in the first place. Logain wouldn’t have rebelled against the M’Hael, they would have stood together against the Forsaken and…

Atal shook his head firmly. _If ifs and buts were candies, we’d all have cavities_ , his grandpa used to say. When Atal had used the phrase at the Tower, everyone had given him an odd look. Apparently, it was a local saying, or perhaps his grandpa had made it up entirely. Atal wouldn’t put it past the old codger.

“I won’t have a choice but to Turn them.” Taim seemed to be talking to himself – or perhaps to his glass of wine. He’d begun pacing. “But even Moridin will have to understand that I have to act without raising suspicion. One at a time, as discreetly as possible. They can still function afterward, though they won’t fool their sisters for very long. We should keep them separate, if we can. I’d say we start with Tazanovni, she’s clearly their leader, but that would be too obvious. The others might panic and try to escape, causing a scene.” Atal wasn’t sure if he should stay or go. Taim hadn’t dismissed him yet, however, so he dared not leave. “Besides,” the M’Hael went on, muttering under his breath, “Tazanovni might be our best chance. She might figure out what’s going on, call for back-up…” He stopped abruptly, sloshing some wine on his sleeve, though he appeared not to notice. His eyes seemed to regain their focus and landed on Atal, who stood rigidly near the door. “They’re bound to realise at some point, aren’t they? What’s happening down here. They’re not _that_ stupid, the lot of them, are they? They can’t be.”

Well, Atal couldn’t speak for the Aes Sedai, but most of the men weren’t exactly perceptive. Some were quite thick indeed. Logain seemed to have selected the smartest among them and stolen them away. Oh, there were exceptions, certainly, but Genhald, for example, could barely channel to start a fire, despite his so-called ‘gift’ with gateways.

Taim continued rambling without waiting for Atal to reply. “When they finally understand, they’ll form an alliance. They’ll be the resistance against my tyranny,” he said with what sounded suspiciously like a giggle. He downed the remainder of his glass and appeared to – ironically – sober up. “You will make sure that they do. Figure it out, I mean. Integrate the resistance, Mishraile. Become one of them. We _have_ to put an end to this.”

“To…what?” Atal stammered. At some point, he'd lost the thread of Taim's half-drunken monologue. What was he trying to say?

“To all of this!” Taim cried, waving his hands frantically. His glass flew out of his hand and crashed against the bookshelf. Atal winced. Somewhere in Caemlyn, a glass-monger was getting richer by the day. “To the Turning, to the Forsaken’s reign of terror, to their attempts at destroying everything I worked so hard to create! They’re ruining the Black Tower. Moridin is ruining _everything_. If we keep this up, al’Thor will be overwhelmed by rogue Asha’man during the Last Battle. You do realise that, don’t you?” Atal nodded uncertainly. Wasn't that precisely the point? “And the bloody farm boy doesn’t even suspect a flaming thing! Peace,” the M'Hael murmured. “I am surrounded by idiots.” He pinched the bridge of his hooked nose, closing his eyes for a moment. “Mishraile, listen to me. You need to make certain that the Aes Sedai find out what’s going on as quickly as possible, without incriminating yourself. They _have_ to do something. The Black Tower’s fate rests in your hands, Guardian,” the M’Hael added ominously, dark eyes glittering with intensity. “You must save them. Save those who can still be saved.”

Judging by his tone, that did not include himself.


	64. So passionate, and yet so utterly doomed

Twelve days. That was how long M’Hael had allowed Logain to recuperate.

He still hadn’t caved. M’Hael hadn’t really expected him to.

After this second attempt at Turning Logain, feeling heartsick, M'Hael had sought Neya out in a moment of weakness, hoping to find some solace in the confines of her mind. He checked on her regularly, despite…whatever she was up to. He’d grown hopeful, against his better judgement, when he’d realised she wasn’t in fact up to anything, these days. She felt…lonely. Worried. He could tell that some of that worry was directed at him, but not all of it. Not most of it, really.

After a while, M’Hael thought Neya had become aware that he was actively scanning her emotions, because a sense of awareness had bloomed in his mind. Somewhat reluctantly, he’d let down the barriers that concealed his own emotions. Neya must have sensed that something was wrong with him. Well, more so than usual, anyway. She’d sent positive thoughts, but he could tell that her feelings toward him had changed. She loved him, but… He was under the impression that this emotion was not entirely directed at him, either.

He’d cut the connection after letting her have a brief analysis of his mind. He couldn’t afford for her to rummage in there for too long. What if she realised what he was doing?

Light, she would never forgive him.

* * *

Logain felt restless. The pain from that last session had not quite faded yet, and he had a violent headache. He was cold and feverish.

He heard a muffled conversation outside his cell. Toveine was talking to one of the Asha’man, though Logain couldn’t tell which one.

His bond to the Red had…died, after she was Turned. Then it had roared back to life. It was…different now. Corrupt. Poisonous, _wrong_. It made him queasy.

It was nothing compared to actually seeing Toveine, however. That had shocked him to his very core. She had been the one to unlock his cell and, as Coteren had been maliciously delighted to point out, she’d been the one shielding him. What was even worse was the look in her eyes – the absence of light, the lack of reaction when he’d called her name. She’d sneered at him, called him an impotent swine, a pathetic simpleton. Where _that_ came from, Logain had no idea. Was it what Toveine really thought of him, but had had the decency to keep to herself before she was Turned? When she was still a human being? Or was her essence gone altogether, her soul disintegrated and replaced by this poor imitation? Was it a mere generic, villainous remark? Logain couldn’t tell. Despite their bond, he had never…well, bonded with Toveine. He knew practically nothing of the woman. He’d had no illusion that she liked him, but he thought that she’d come to respect him, at least. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Not that it mattered now.

Seeing that Toveine was lost to him, he’d sought out Gabrelle. He’d sent reassurance, though he knew it was pointless. She had to know what was happening, or at least that he was being tortured. She knew he’d failed. There was nothing to be done about it. He’d strictly forbidden her to attempt anything, should he be arrested.

He hadn’t trusted her enough. Toveine had paid the price of that mistake.

Logain doubted he would live long to regret it. How long could he endure? Keep hold of his sanity? Resist Taim and his minions? He was strung out already.

_At least I’m being fed now_ , Logain thought derisively. Coteren had given Taim a quizzical look when the M’Hael had ordered a proper meal to be brought down to his cell every day, which led Logain to wonder if he was being given special treatment for some reason. More likely, Taim was simply afraid that Logain would die before being successfully Turned. That would certainly annoy Ishamael.

Still, no matter how enjoyable the idea of annoying the Forsaken, Logain was not quite ready to yield yet.

* * *

Bao came back to her seventeen days later, leaping out of a gateway and clutching the Sceptre. Apparently, he had abandoned everyone in the courtyard and opened another gateway just inside the bedroom a moment later – at least that's what Kal told Neya the next day.

Bao was smiling. Grinning, really. Neya had been so startled that she’d almost choked on her weak tea.

Bao had dismissed Nyamukuta – whom Neya had been trying to bribe into allowing her to have a proper cup of tea, for once – with an approximate wave of his hand and then had practically flung Neya on the bed, throwing caution to the wind without a second thought.

Neya watched him sleep for a while that night, wondering what would happen next. He would be crowned soon, and then he would begin gathering his forces in earnest, preparing for the Last Battle, she assumed. Not many of the male Ayyad could channel, but apparently there would be enough of them to form a full circle. It could be mainly constituted of female channelers without breaking the link, although a more balanced number of each gender would have provided an even more powerful circle. With Sakarnen, however, Neya didn't think it would matter. Unless Rand decided to attack Bao with the Choedan Kal, he would likely be overwhelmed, if it came to a duel between the two of them. She wasn't certain that the channelers of the Light knew how to form a circle, let alone a full one. Such a thing would require that the Asha'man and Aes Sedai cooperate and work together, and the very idea was laughable. Neya wondered if Rand had somehow managed to unite every Western nation under his rule. It seemed improbable, no matter how strongly  _ta'veren_  he might be.

She had taken the opportunity of Bao's absence to attempt to befriend, or at least become acquainted to, some of the female Ayyad. She hadn't expected anything from Galbrait, despite having saved the woman's life, and indeed only received a contemptuous stare for her trouble. She'd had more success with the young woman Bao had entrusted with the rehabilitation of the former slaves. She had been appointed just a few weeks ago. Her name was Taimaka, and she was also a Healer, the best amongst the Ayyad. They had been exchanging ideas and experimenting with weaves for the past two weeks - whenever Neya was indeed able to channel. Nyamukuta had warned her that she might have trouble embracing  _saidar_ , during the first few months of her pregnancy.

Neya became aware that Bao was looking at her and smiled at him. He smiled back, and her heart leaped in her chest. It wasn't fair. When the Last Battle began, she knew she would have to abandon him. She wasn't that far gone that she wouldn't at least try to fight for the Light, although she doubted they'd want her there, after everything she'd done. In any case, her relationship with the Forsaken was doomed, no matter how she looked at it. He would repudiate her for betraying him, and he would die, whatever the issue of the battle. There could be no happy ending for them.

Her smile wavered slightly, but Bao didn’t appear to notice. "You're a mess," Neya said teasingly. He really was, and not just from what they'd been doing all night. There were deep gashes on his back and thighs, and she suspected a few cracked ribs as well. He was covered in bruises. Why hadn't he asked someone to Heal him? "What did you do, wrestle a bear?"

"A  _jumara_ , actually," he replied modestly. "A full-fledged one."

She stared at him blankly for a second as she tried to remember what the word meant. "A Worm?" she asked incredulously when it finally hit her. Bao nodded. "Are you bloody insane? You could have gotten yourself killed! Peace, man, don't you have any regard for your own skin?"

"I am here, am I not? In one piece, as promised.” More or less, Neya was tempted to say. “And I brought back the prize, just as I said I would." He looked unusually smug.

Neya sighed. "Shall I Heal you? Or would you like to keep the scars as keepsakes, to remember the Worm by?" she asked wryly.

"By all means," he answered indifferently.

She embraced _saidar_ , placed a hand on his arm and made it all disappear, save for the small scar on his nose. It was something to remember _her_ by. "I don't know how you do that."

"It is not too difficult, as long as you do not use the Power and know where to strike. You just have to cut the beast to pieces until it is dead."

"Oh yes, it's a piece of cake,” Neya said, rolling her eyes. “That's not what I meant, though." He frowned slightly. _"_ I remember when my Da cracked a rib some years ago. For weeks he could barely move. He said it hurt to even breathe. So how do you manage to do…well, anything, really? You _do_ feel the pain, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I simply do not allow it to come between me and whatever task I am undertaking. Not unless I want it to," Bao amended.

She chuckled softly _._ "I don't suppose you would give birth in my stead, by any chance?"

He seemed to think it over for a time, as if seriously considering it. "No, I would not," he said eventually. "That is not something I would ever want to experience."

"Well, you're not likely to," she pointed out. "Why not, though?"

"The pain would be too excruciating, even for me."

She stared at him incredulously. "Blood and ashes! If even _you_ couldn't take it… That's very comforting, thank you."

"I had not realised you were so worried about it. You know that women have been giving birth since the dawn of time, do you not? Most of them survive the ordeal, some more than once. They even manage to be happy about it, afterward."

Was he being sarcastic? Neya couldn't tell for certain. "Again, not particularly reassuring." She snuggled closer to him _._ "And what if you're away when it happens? I can't do this on my own."

" _T_ _armon Gai'don_  will be upon us much sooner than that. But you will not be alone, even if I am not present. I will make sure of that."

She was not relieved in the slightest, but she put the matter aside for the time being. "I believe you said something about being enthroned when you came back from the Hearttomb?"

"Yes, as soon as possible," he replied.

"We should make it a proper celebration. You're officially the Wyld now, and you're the king. That calls for festivities. It will raise everyone's spirits, in light of the battle to come."

"I suppose we could do that," he said cautiously. "How soon do you think we could arrange it?"

"A week, two at most. I suppose Shendla will take care of the ritual ceremony. Taimaka will help with the rest, and Kal, too, if I ask nicely. Where are the boys, anyway? Did you take them back to the camp?" she asked as she got out of bed. It would be a stretch, but they could make it work. She had already made some preparations while Bao was away, at his request.

"No, but I told them they could open a gateway there if they wanted."

Neya put on some clothes and walked to the balcony that overlooked the gardens. Mid-spring was the best season to enjoy the view, as most of the flowers were in bloom. She had spent a lot of time down there in the past two weeks, enjoying her weak tea with Taimaka and Nyamukuta. The good thing about Sharans was that they rarely indulged in drinking wine or any sort of liquor. Well, at least it was a good thing at the moment, since those beverages were incompatible with her present condition. Bao followed her on the balcony and stood behind her, hands on her waist. "If we are going to celebrate…" he murmured in her ear.

"We certainly are," she cut in happily. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d celebrated anything.

"…perhaps we should take the opportunity to be married at the same time."

Neya didn't speak for a long moment. Her mind was utterly blank. It couldn't seem to process the words. _Blood and ashes!_ _Did he just_ propose _?_

"Neya?" Bao prompted her, somewhat hesitantly. When she didn't answer, he turned her around gently. She couldn't even look at him. She buried her face in his chest, shaking helplessly. "What is the matter?" he asked with a faint trace of concern.

"You have no idea how much I'm struggling not to break down in hysterical giggles right now," she finally managed to whisper.

He sighed irritably. "I was being serious," he said, seriously indeed.

"I know. You're always serious." Inhaling deeply, she took a tiny step back to look up at him. Light, he was so beautiful. "Why do you want to marry me?" she whispered.

"If I die during the Last Battle, I want to make sure this land is left in good hands," he replied quietly.

_Always the practical one_ , she thought wryly. "And if you live?"

His scowl deepened. "What do you mean?"

"Shendla said you needed me until the Last Battle. What if you live past it? You won't need me then. And I would be a ruler in my own right, if we were married, wouldn't I?" Neya placed a hand on her belly. "And what about the baby?"

"You misunderstand me," he said softly. It was her turn to frown. "I  _want_  to marry you, and not only for the practicalities it entails. And I thought I made it clear that I would look after the child as if it were my own." He gazed at her intently. He never said anything he didn't mean, but did it really matter, in any case? Whatever happened during the Last Battle, he would die; either the other side would execute him for his crimes or kill him in battle, or the world would end and  _everyone_  would die.

With that in mind, it seemed irrelevant whether they were married or not when it happened. If that was what he wanted, she would do it. Besides, Neya realised that she wanted it, too.

* * *

The idea of marriage had never appealed to Bao. It still did not. Attaching oneself to one woman, sharing her bed night after night, until either spouse died… Once they made it official, he could never be with anyone else. His honour would be at stake, and Bao was and always had been an honourable man.

Although, he had to admit, if it had to be done... Neya was not the worst woman to marry.

_Beware the wayward queen_ , Moridin had told him – a stray line from the Prophecies of the Shadow that, the _Nae’blis_ was for some reason convinced, referred to Neya. That was what had given Bao the idea of marriage in the first place. But who should beware? The Light, or the Shadow? Of course Neya appeared to serve the Light, but why would she agree to marry him if she intended to rebel against him? She wouldn't betray him, surely. She didn’t have it in her.

All he had to do was to make sure that Neya was and remained loyal to him. How difficult could it be? Shendla had already assured him that she was his, that she loved him, and Shendla would never lie to him.

Moridin was fussing over nothing. Bao was increasingly certain of that.

He had _D’jedt_ , and he had Neya, the wild card of the Prophecies; two major assets. Not to mention the resources to form a full circle and a vast army under his command. And the element of surprise – unless he was badly mistaken, no one knew where he had established himself, save Moridin.

Victory was all but assured.

Lews Therin was as good as dead, but Bao would make it last. A quick, painless death was more than the Dragon deserved.


	65. The lies we tell for love

Natael found himself in the Ansaline Gardens. The place looked exactly as it did during the Age of Legends, except that it was empty of elegantly dressed people and eerily silent. But the exotic flowers decorating the terrace, the stream of clear water filled with colourful fishes, the large oaken bar and the multitude tables were there, complete with silverware and pristine tablecloths, as if waiting for the patrons to show up.

Natael was not alone, however. There was a man sitting on a high stool at the counter, holding a crystal glass that contained a turquoise liquid. The man had his back to Natael, and he didn’t turn around when Natael spoke. “What is this?” he demanded. Few people could control the World of Dreams, let alone bring people there while they were asleep. Natael’s voice didn’t tremble, but he felt trapped. He’d never had any skill at controlling _Tel’aran’rhiod_.

“The Ansaline Gardens,” the man replied. “You of all people ought to recognise the place.”

He didn’t bother to introduce himself, which Natael considered very rude, given that the man had just brought him here against his will in the middle of the bloody night. “Let me rephrase,” he said irritably. “Why am I here? Who are you?”

“You of all people ought to know that, as well.” Only then did he turn to face Natael. He stood up, abandoning his drink on the counter. He was about twenty, tall, and beautiful. Natael had never seen him in his life.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said impatiently. “What do you want with me?” If he’d been sent by the Chosen to murder him in his sleep, Natael wouldn’t go down without a fight. He didn’t know how to manipulate the World of Dreams, but he had recovered his full strength and, by all accounts, he was one of the most powerful channelers alive, only a tad weaker than al’Thor himself. The youth was in for a surprise, if he expected Natael to be able to channel only a trickle of _saidin._ He wondered which Chosen had sent him. Couldn’t they even be bothered to kill him themselves?

“My name,” the lad said quietly, “is Moridin.”

A bit late for the introduction, but never mind that. So this was the man Semirhage had mentioned. “ _Death_ ,” Natael translated with a sneer. “How…tasteful.” Still, it sounded like a name fit for one of the Chosen. Was he a new recruit? Some brazen lad of this Age who had somehow ascended to the highest rank? Natael scoffed. “It makes sense,” he went on, almost talking to himself. “You’ve suffered heavy losses. The Great Lord must be truly desperate, however, to recruit children.”

Moridin smiled, showing teeth. His blue eyes blazed… Wait. What was _that_? As Natael watched, tiny black flecks wandered in the man’s eyes. Natael couldn’t suppress a shudder. Few people had ever been given access to the True Power, and even fewer had dared channel enough of it for so many _saa_ to be visible in their gaze. No one could channel the True Power for very long without it affecting their brain. _Saidin_ may have been cleansed, but this was a different sort of madness altogether.

“Who _are_ you?” Natael muttered. “The Great Lord would never allow…” He fell silent, unable to form a coherent thought.

Once again, Moridin chose to address Natael’s concerns in disorder. “The Great Lord never despairs. He doesn’t feel emotions. You should know this. You were once one of his most prominent servants, Nessosin.”

Natael’s eyes widened in abrupt realisation. No one ever called him that, except… “Tedronai?” he murmured uncertainly. “It can’t be. Al’Thor killed you.” Did he, though? The Dragon had seemed quite certain of Ishamael’s demise, and so had Lanfear, for that matter… And yet.

As the seals weakened, the Great Lord’s influence became stronger. Could it be that He had the power to bring back the dead? This had never occurred before, to Natael’s knowledge, but many things that had never happened before _did_ happen in this cursed Age. The cleansing of the taint, al’Meara Healing severing… Surely the Shadow must have its own accomplishments to rival with the Light’s. The Pattern was all about balance, after all, never favouring Light or Shadow, always brutally impartial. That was something Ishamael – then known only as Elan Morin Tedronai – had taught him, a long time ago.

“I liked you better before,” Natael said lightly, in an attempt to conceal his shock and uneasiness.

Tedronai – Moridin – snorted. “So did I.” He picked up his glass. The liquid turned an alarming shade of crimson, thick as blood – another viewing come true, Natael mused – but it didn’t appear to bother the Chosen. He gulped it down in one and set the glass back on the counter. Then he turned his attention back to Natael. “How rude of me. I forget how grossly inept you always were at manipulating this place,” he said without inflection. “May I offer you a drink?”

Natael resisted the urge to embrace the Source. He didn’t stand a chance against the older man. He never did. What in the Pit of Doom did he _want_? Why had he come now? Had he only just come back to life? “I’ll pass,” he replied. “Is she alive, as well? Mierin?”

Moridin didn’t answer right away. He indicated a table set for two and invited Natael to sit down with him, which Natael did, albeit reluctantly. He nearly fell off his chair when someone suddenly materialised at his side.

A _zomara_. The genderless creature’s empty eyes stared blankly at Moridin, awaiting orders. The Chosen was smiling in amusement at Natael’s reaction. “Two glasses of ice wine.” He glanced at Natael. “For old times’ sake.”

Well, at least Natael wouldn’t have been here for nothing. He loved ice wine.

The _zomara_ came back with their order and faded in the background. Natael dismissed it from his mind. “Well? Has Lanfear come back?” he asked again. He doubted it. She’d most likely died in Sindhol, and Natael didn’t think that even the Great Lord’s touch could reach the Finn’s accursed realm.

Moridin took his time to reply, so Natael decided to take a sip of his drink. The taste brought him back thousands of years ago, to happier days. Days when he’d been a young, insouciant musician trying to break through. Simpler times.

He didn’t stop to consider the fact that Moridin may have poisoned the wine. If that was how he was supposed to go, Natael could think of few better ways to die. Poison had never been Ishamael’s weapon of choice, however.

“That is of no concern to you,” Moridin said eventually. If that was all he was going to say on the matter, he might as well have said nothing at all. Natael thought he would have just said _no_ , however, if Lanfear were truly dead. She must have died at some point, though, otherwise Natael’s shield wouldn’t have vanished.

So. Some of the Chosen – at least one, likely two – had been reincarnated in new bodies, bodies that no one else would recognise. This was…troubling. Natael wondered if he should mention this to al’Thor when he got back, then realised he might _not_ be going back. He still had no idea what Moridin wanted with him.

The Chosen sighed, muttered under his breath, then apparently came to a decision. “ _Lanfear_ is dead, Nessosin. She’s not coming for you.” The way he insisted on the name likely meant she’d been given a new pseudonym, as well. “You’re quite safe, I assure you.” Natael scoffed. “Have you not wondered why you were still alive?”

“The question may have crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“You’re alive because I commanded them to leave you alone,” Moridin explained matter-of-factly.

He’d _commanded_ them? Since when did the other Chosen obey him? Ishamael had often been considered their unofficial leader – that is, he’d considered _himself_ their leader – but to claim that the others actually complied…

It could only mean one thing: the man was still insane, still convinced that he was the Great Lord incarnate. He did appear more lucid than before, but appearances could be deceiving.

Moridin laughed, though the sound held no mirth. “Don’t be fooled, Nessosin. I may be insane, but when wasn’t I?” he asked rhetorically. Natael didn’t think he’d been mad as Elan Morin. He’d been an eccentric genius, yes, with insane theories, but his mind had been hale. “I know what I’m saying. I’m not delusional. The Chosen obey me, because I have been made _Nae’blis_.”

In hindsight, that was even worse. The Great Lord had _actually_ put him in charge? Officially? Blood and ashes, as the youngsters said these days. They were all doomed. Natael was almost amazed that the world was still intact, with Tedronai leading the armies of the Shadow and ordering the Chosen about.

On the other hand, he couldn’t help but imagine the look on their faces when Moridin had announced his new title. Demandred… Oh dear. The man must have suffered a stroke. Hopefully, the shock had killed him.

“Congratulations,” Natael offered offhandedly. “But I assume you brought me here for a good reason?” He was glad for the revelation, but he wished the other man would stop beating about the bush. He was afraid that Moridin was being generous with the information because Natael was as good as dead.

“Close as you are to the Dragon Reborn, I suppose you are aware that we’ve suffered several losses in the past few months,” Moridin ventured, swirling the contents of his glass with what had to be the True Power, because his hand wasn’t moving and he hadn’t embraced _saidin_. The man _was_ insane, to use it so nonchalantly.

“Indeed,” he said. “And now I’m also aware that they’ve been brought back,” he added.

Moridin shook his head. “Not all of them. Even the Great Lord couldn’t do anything for those who were burned out of the Pattern.” In other words, the ones who’d been struck by Balefire. Natael tried to remember who had suffered that fate. Only Rahvin and Be’lal, according to al’Thor, although the Dragon wasn’t responsible for the latter’s demise. Only two of them, then. They had to assume that the other dead ones had been brought back: Balthamel, Aginor. Possibly Sammael. Had al’Thor used Balefire against him? Natael couldn’t remember. What he did know was that no body had been recovered. For all they knew, the Chosen had escaped.

The Dragon would be angry when he learned of this. If he ever did. Even if Natael somehow made it out of here alive, he wasn’t certain he wanted to share that information. How could he possibly explain this sudden knowledge without it sounding suspicious? Al’Thor didn’t trust him as it was.

“We’ve suffered more casualties than I expected at this stage of the game,” Moridin went on with what looked suspiciously like a pout. Natael couldn’t help a smirk. He looked so _pretty_. How was anyone supposed to take him seriously as _Nae’blis_ , especially with such a ridiculous name? But Natael imagined that was the point – most likely, that was the Great Lord’s way of punishing Ishamael for impersonating Him. He had a twisted sense of humour, the Great Lord did.

No matter how successful al’Thor had been at decimating the Chosen, there were still quite a few of them at play, including Ishamael, Lanfear and Demandred – the three most dangerous ones, in Natael’s opinion. Not that the others were much harmless, but those three were the worst of the worst, so to speak.

Natael realised that Moridin had been talking while he ruminated. “…which is why I would present you with the opportunity to come back to us.” He gave Natael an expectant look.

Huh. He hadn’t seen _that_ coming. After all these months, stranded, alone, with no allies… _Now_ they wanted him back?

He should have just said yes, he shouldn’t have hesitated. He ought to be grateful, he knew. Moridin _expected_ him to be relieved and beg to join the team. “And if I refuse?” he asked instead. Moridin wouldn’t let him live to spill the Chosen’s secrets to their sworn enemy, that was certain, but there seemed to be no harm in asking.

Moridin shrugged. “It matters little to me, Nessosin. But can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you’ve converted to the Light, that you’re fully committed to al’Thor?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m loyal to the boy,” Natael said disdainfully. “But honestly, what’s in it for me? I was always despised. The Chosen think me useless. And you’ve already been named _Nae’blis_. What could I possibly gain by joining you, Tedronai? A slower, more painful death, should we fail?” he sneered.

“It doesn’t matter whether you fail or not,” Moridin said with some irritation. “The issue of _Tarmon Gai’don_ is already known. The Great Lord shall triumph, and break the Wheel.”

If he was arguing for Natael to ally with his former colleagues, he wasn’t using the adequate arguments, far from it. “You realise what you’re offering me,” he said blankly. “Death.”

“Well, you’re bound to die anyway, whether you serve the Light or the Shadow.” Natael often wished he didn’t have to serve either. He wasn’t a servant; he was Joar Addam Nessosin, greatest musician of all times! He was his own man, not a pawn of the Pattern. He didn’t bow down to anyone. _Unless your life is threatened_ , a little voice in the back of his mind pointed out. Natael shushed it irritably. He was _not_ a coward! He simply valued his own life. There was a difference. “What use does al’Thor have for you? Wouldn’t you rather be _doing_ something? I have plenty of available tasks. And I trust you to see them through. Does the almighty Dragon trust you?” Moridin asked with an arched eyebrow. “You’ve been with him for months, Nessosin. Has anything changed at all in the way he treats you?”

Oh, things had changed, alright. Natael could probably have disappeared for a month without al’Thor noticing. The boy had dismissed him entirely; he took Natael for granted. That was a mistake, one Natael could have easily acted upon, but if _this_ was the alternative…

“You were never useless,” Moridin crooned. “You were always able to see the bigger picture, unlike the other Chosen. They are self-centred, focused on settling their vain bickering, their petty vengeance. You… Well, you certainly never lacked an ego, but your sense of self-preservation made you more valuable. Unlike the rest of them, you remained realistic. You knew we weren’t invincible. I could use your rationalism, Nessosin. Your paranoia.”

“Not to mention that I’ve been following al’Thor closely, that I’m present when he has important strategic conversations, and that I know him better than any of you,” Natael added wryly. Of course. Moridin and his cronies believed al’Thor to be Lews Therin reincarnated. Well, he was, but the two didn’t have that much in common – unlike Egwene al’Vere, for example, who was the spitting image of Latra Posae Decume. The two women could have been twins, and their personalities were quite alike as well.

Moridin was after information. The Dragon outmatched him. He’d already done for more than half of the Chosen – including the ones who’d been brought back from the dead since their initial demise, but still.

Natael should have known that this wasn’t a social call, or even a professional meeting. Moridin needed something from him. That was likely why he’d left Natael at al’Thor’s side for so long. Natael had been left to gather information, and Moridin had come to reap it.

Natael was trapped. He didn’t feel particularly loyal to al’Thor, and he certainly didn’t owe the boy anything, but he was also quite averse to joining the Chosen at this point. Bowing and scraping to Ishamael? No, thank you. He wished he could just retire from the world and leave them all to sort _Tarmon Gai’don_ on their own, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Moridin would find him wherever he went – and so would al’Thor, for that matter.

Natael sighed. “How about you simply leave me alone to enjoy whatever time I have left in peace?” He wasn’t altogether hopeful regarding his chances of surviving the Last Battle.

Moridin actually appeared to consider this. “This is a one-time offer, Nessosin. Don’t expect me to take you back when you come crawling to me, begging for mercy, in a few weeks,” he warned Natael.

“I would never insult you so,” Natael shot back at him. He looked into Moridin’s deep blue eyes, searching for any indication that Tedronai was still there, somewhere. “Are you not going to kill me, then? Am I free to go?” he asked uncertainly.

Moridin held his gaze but remained silent for a long time. “You may go,” he murmured eventually. “I will not harm you. But you do realise that the end will be the same, no matter what side you pick, don’t you? There shall be no victors. Only death awaits.”

“I like to believe that you’re wrong about that,” Natael said, though he had a sinking feeling that the _Nae’blis_ was right. Al'Thor's mental health was not improving, far from it.

“Sometimes, I wish I were, too.” Moridin exhaled a long breath. “I wish you’d never been involved in all this. You deserved better. You had such a promising career…” He trailed off, eyes lost in contemplation of the past.

Natael stared at him in disbelief. Moridin seemed as prone to jumping from pillar to post as Ishamael had been, but that wasn’t what shocked him. “A promising career?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “You said… You told me… You said I was worthless! A waste of space! You mocked me, ridiculed me, and denigrated every piece of music I ever created, you…” He cut off in a huff. Those were the very words that had led to their infamous break-up at the Ansaline Gardens.

Moridin shook his head. “I thought I was doing you a favour. I knew what was coming. The end of our Age, the end of all things. I knew my role in all this. I thought it kinder to let you live your life. I was trying to protect you, Nessosin.”

“ _Protect_ me? You ruined my life!” Natael spat at him. “I gave up my _promising career_ after that nasty episode. I gave up everything! Why do you think I ended up becoming one of the Chosen? I didn’t care about anything anymore! I didn't _have_ anything!”

“I never expected you to harbour such bitterness and resentment towards me, or to take my words so seriously!” The _saa_ swirled wildly across Moridin’s blazing blue eyes. “You never cared about anyone’s opinion!”

“I cared about _your_ opinion!” Natael shouted. “By the blood falls, Elan. I cared about _you_.” His tone had gone from shout to whisper in less than a second.

Moridin’s face went blank. “How many times must I tell you? That is not my name.”

Really? That was what he was fixating upon? His bloody _name_? It was hardly Natael’s fault that he kept changing it! As he opened his mouth to utter a witty retort, however, the grandiose décor of the Ansaline Gardens faded, then disappeared altogether.

Moridin was gone, and Natael was back in his previous dream.

* * *

Natael woke up with a start as a commotion broke out. He dressed quickly and ran in the hallway. People were milling about in a frenzy. One of the servants, looking frantic, explained what happened.

Natael decided to get some fresh air. He doubted that al’Thor would want to see him right then. It wasn’t Natael’s place to protect the Dragon Reborn, but he was sleeping in the next room. He should have been present. He could have helped. Moridin must have planned this diversion in _Tel'aran'rhiod_ while an accomplice broke Semirhage out. The _Nae'blis_ would be furious when he found out what had happened - another Chosen blasted away and, by all accounts, al'Thor had used Balefire. There would be no coming back for Nemene. Natael wondered if he would receive a second visit. Would Moridin kill him out of sheer spite?

He wandered aimlessly for a while, until he heard muffled sniffling. He hesitated, but finally moved toward the sound.

It was Min. She was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying. She glared at him when he approached – with much caution. She was fierce even when in a good mood, and that was certainly not the case now.

She wiped her eyes angrily. “Where _were_ you?” she demanded, stumbling to a standing position.

He hesitated. “I was…asleep. Are you alright?” Stupid question, he realised too late.

“Of course I’m bloody well not! Nothing is alright!” She punched the wall, and Natael took an involuntary step backward.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” he said soothingly. “We…um…may have another problem.”

Min snorted. “Only one?”

“Ishamael lives,” he announced heavily.

“We know. Rand told me. Just before…” She shuddered. Then she frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. “How did _you_ find out? How long have you known?”

Blood and ashes, he was tired of being wrongly accused. “I only just found out! Ishamael…that is, Moridin snatched me while I slept. We had a little chat in _Tel’aran’rhiod._ ”

“And you escaped…how? You told Rand you had very little skill at controlling the World of Dreams.”

“I didn’t escape,” he admitted reluctantly. “He let me go.”

Min regarded him dubiously. “Why? What did he want?”

“He offered to take me back. I refused,” he quickly assured her when her brown eyes flashed dangerously.

“And he let you go anyway? Just like that? Why would he do that?” She sounded understandably perplexed.

Truth be told, Natael wasn’t sure why. Moridin had relapsed into being Elan for a brief moment, but the _Nae’blis_ didn’t seem to care much about Natael, not really. Min already knew that Elan and he used to be lovers, in the Age of Legends, but she didn’t know the extent of it, and Natael didn't feel like recounting their conversation. After pondering for a minute, he finally settled for a reply. “Because he thinks we’re all doomed, regardless of my position when the Last Battle comes.”

All suspicion and doubt fled her pale face. She looked worn out, miserable, more vulnerable than Natael had ever seen her. “I'm beginning to think he may be right about that,” she murmured despondently.


	66. Give me your heart and your soul

The formal ritual of acknowledgement of the Wyld was performed at dawn. Shendla saw to it in her usual perfunctory manner, with no wasted word or gesture. It seemed the whole nation had turned up to attend the festivities; the palace's courtyard was bursting with people, most of them former slaves, but Sharans of all origins and statuses filled the streets of the Capital as well.

Bao and Neya would be married soon, in the gardens. It was spring, and they couldn't have hoped for a more beautiful setting, in Kal's estimation. Not that it mattered much to him. This was all a grievous mistake, as far as he was concerned.

Neya was getting ready in Taimaka's room, with Torn and himself to assist. Taimaka was doing Neya's hair; it had to be something practical that would accommodate for the crown she would have to wear after the coronation, which would take place later in the afternoon.

"Are you sure about this?" Kal asked her for the umpteenth time. It didn't matter to him that Bao had accomplished all the prophecies, not since Neya had revealed who he truly was, just a few days after they returned from the Hearttomb. One of the Shadowsouled could not be the Wyld. Kal had known something was off about the man, but this was worse than he had anticipated. Demandred was walking among them and ruling over Shara. He was planning to have them fight for him at the Last Battle. For the Shadow. Kal wanted to go to Galbrait, to urge her to have him removed somehow. Against several hundred Ayyad, surely Bao wouldn't stand a chance, even with the relic he'd acquired in _Rai'lair_. But Neya had convinced him not to. How could she stand to be so close to the Shadowsouled? To actually share his bed? It was beyond him. Kal found it difficult to even be in the same room with him. If this whole wedding business was part of a bigger plan, Neya hadn't informed him of it yet.

Neya exhaled sharply. "Light, Kal! Yes, I'm sure. Stop fretting, I'm nervous enough as it is," she told him accusingly.

"Not for the same reasons, I'll wager," Torn cut in slyly. He seemed as unconcerned as Neya.

Didn't they realise what was at stake here? They couldn't possibly be Darkfriends, not them. Kal was almost certain of that. Almost. "You're insane," he muttered darkly. "Both of you."

"Don't be like that," Taimaka scolded him. "It's her wedding day! You should be happy for her."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Happy? She's about to marry _Demandred_ , for crying out loud! The man who is going to destroy us all! How is that something to be happy about?" Light, they were _all_ mad! Had the Shadowsouled poisoned their minds with the Power?

Taimaka shrugged lightly. "The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. There's more to people than what the eye can see."

Kal shook his head. "If you think marrying him will change him, change what he is, you're wrong, _ina_. I see that you love him, or you think you do, but this is madness. He certainly doesn't love you back. The likes of him are beyond saving, beyond redemption. He will lead us to our doom and you, more than anyone else, will suffer from it." He hated to be so harsh to her – he had come to consider Neya as a friend, if not quite as a surrogate mother, like some of the younger male Ayyad – but someone had to make her see sense. _Better to be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie_ , as the saying went, especially if that lie meant their lives, and possibly the fate of the world itself.

Neya turned to look at him, outwardly cool and collected, despite her earlier claim that she felt nervous. "I know all that, Kal. Believe me, I do. But what would you have me do? Kill him in his sleep, when he's vulnerable, now that I have his trust? You think it never occurred to me that I could do it, and how easy it would be? How many lives I could potentially save with one swift stroke?"

As a matter of fact, he had no idea she'd even considered it. Light, he kept underestimating her, even after all this time. It made it all so much worse. "Neya–"

"If you think you can do it, then do it," she told him earnestly. "I won't blame you. I will hate you for it, Light help me, but I won't blame you. But I couldn't. Not now, not ever. I know it will all end it tears. I know he's doomed, no matter the conclusion. And I know there will be casualties, although I intend to make sure there are as few as possible. I will deal with my own share of responsibility once we receive the butcher's bill. I haven't given up on the world, however. I'm not ready to do that just yet."

What could he say to that? He hadn't realised she was so conflicted about the man.

"You don't have to attend the ceremony," Neya went on. "You don't even have to be here. I told you that before, Kal. You're free to go. You could have left days ago, when I told you who he really was."

"And yet I didn't. Where would I go, anyway?" he said wistfully. "No. We're all in this together. We follow the madman, and we'll do what we can to stir him on the right path, I suppose. Whatever happens, we live or die together."

"We live or die together," the future queen repeated softly.

* * *

The wedding ceremony was done in the House of Kongsidi, a small temple built within the confines of the Royal Gardens. It involved very little religious nonsense, thankfully. To Neya's delight, Mintel had offered to perform the ceremony himself. The old man was beaming so much he had trouble keeping track of his words. When he was done with his part, Mintel asked Neya if she wanted to add a few words. Taimaka had explained that it was customary for the bride and groom to come up with the marital vows in their own words, so Neya had been working on a little speech. She was incredibly nervous at having to speak in front of so many people; she'd never had to do anything quite like this before.

"Bao, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad that you brought me to this blasted, Light-forsaken land after all," she began after Power-enhancing her voice to carry to the end of the hall. That elicited some laughs. "I will ever look after you and care for you, as best I can," she went on more seriously. "I will always keep your best interests at heart and do whatever is in my power to make your life as happy as possible. I will always love you, and only death will part us. Or it won't, depending on your belief regarding the afterlife," she amended. The Sharans were divided on the matter. "But before that happens, I vow to make you choke with laughter." The assembled crowd exploded with mirth, which resonated inside the temple, and applauded with enthusiasm. Neya wasn't done, however. "This I swear, under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth." She fixed her eyes on Bao as she spoke. He looked slightly startled by those last words, although she doubted anyone else noticed. There was no oath stronger than this one, for one who walked in the Light – or thought they did.

Bao patiently waited for the cheering to subside. "I shall ever protect and shield you from harm. I shall care for you and our children, to the best of my ability."  _Our children_. Did he expect more than one? Neya wondered briefly.

"My heart belongs to you," he went on, his green eyes boring into hers. He hesitated for a moment. "This I swear, under everything I hold true." She knew very well that he couldn't reciprocate her oath, but this was more than she'd expected from him. Did he truly love her, or was this all part of a much larger ploy? Neya wanted to believe that his feelings for her were genuine, even if this was only another scheme.

He looked so earnest! She felt her heart break a little. _My heart belongs to you._ Light! She had always made fun of people who cried at weddings but this was… Oh well. Nobody would blame her if she wept. She was pregnant, after all, and pregnant women could afford to appear overly emotional.

"Well, it looks like you've got it all covered," Mintel told them warmly. Neya grinned at him through her tears. "You may kiss him now, if you wish," he added with a grin of his own.

"Kiss him?" she repeated with mock horror, wiping at her eyes. "Peace, no one said anything about that!" Laughter broke once more amongst their guests. Bao didn't wait for it to die down before kissing her, however. She didn't think they were supposed to kiss like _that_ , either.

"Alright, alright, you don't have to consummate the marriage on the altar, my friend!" Torn called out mirthfully.

Everyone cheered as they left the gardens to join the female Ayyad in their own building, where the coronation would take place. Neya still had trouble getting her head around it. She, a flaming queen! Of Shara, of all places! It was a fine joke. _Mat will roll on the floor with laughter when he finds out_ , she thought wryly. _If I ever see him again_ , she amended sadly.

Galbrait herself placed the crowns on their heads. They were magnificent, both made of a light, polished metal and woven in intricate patterns. Bao's represented complicated symbols associated with the Wyld that matched the tattoos on his hands. Her tiara was a maze of exotic flowers. There were tiny scintillating gems of various colours incrusted in it.

This ceremony lasted a lot longer than the others, and Neya distinctly heard several people yawn. She had to repress the urge herself. Bao endured the seemingly endless flow of words stoically, as usual. Galbrait was droning on in _isleh_ , too fast for Neya to follow; she soon found her attention wavering and her mind wandering.

Neya had talked to Shendla before the festivities began, mainly to inquire about the formalities of the different ceremonies, but also to submit a theory to the older woman. A Worm, in _isleh_ , was called a _wyrm_. In the Old Tongue, _wyrm_ was a word for dragon, although admittedly not the best known one – _aman_ had been more commonly used. Still, it got her wondering. Could Bao have become the Wyld after slaying the _jumara_ , the Dragon of _Rai'lair_? Shendla had studied her for a long moment, looking thoughtful. "I hadn't considered that," she admitted eventually. "Perhaps you are right. Only time will tell, I suppose." She'd made a dismissive gesture, as if it didn't matter at all. Neya had felt a little disappointed. She had been quite excited when she'd figured it out. Perhaps she should broach the subject with Bao himself – _my husband_ , she thought giddily – although she suspected it wouldn't change anything, even if he embraced the idea. He wanted Lews Therin dead; nothing would change that.

* * *

They were in the bathtub now, soaking in the blissfully warm water after a long, exhausting day – that had been followed by an equally long wedding night. How odd, Neya mused. She had never given marriage a second thought before, and now she was married to one of the Forsaken, to Demandred himself, and queen of a land she had discovered only a few months past. She was going to be a mother. What strange places the Pattern could carry us to, what mysterious twists life could take.


	67. This is rapture of the deep

“How could you let this happen?” Moridin thundered, blues eyes flashing like lightning, _saa_ dancing wildly across the irises. “Three of your Asha’man, dead! The Black Tower, lost, and seized by Logain, of all people! And all of that because of that cursed, treacherous boy!” The _Nae’blis_ sent another painful weave toward M’Hael, who was writhing on the ground.

_That’s hardly fair_ , M’Hael reflected. His body was wracked with agony, but he wouldn’t let it touch his already damaged mind. Or perhaps said damaged mind was keeping the pain at bay, somehow. Being mad did have its perks.

In any case, Mishraile couldn’t be blamed for this walloping. He had only acted on M’Hael’s orders, after all, and it was Genhald who’d led the assault, with the help of his pet Aes Sedai. He had no idea who or what had enabled them to open gateways, with the Dreamspike in place. He didn’t really care.

He wished Moridin would just get it over with. Either he killed M’Hael, or allowed him to resume his activities. This was a waste of time, for the both of them. The Dragon Reborn was gathering his forces for _Tarmon Gai’don_. They had to be ready, and there were yet many preparations to see to, especially since they'd had to relocate.

Now that Logain had assumed control of the Black Tower – well, once he recovered from his ordeal, he certainly would – and that Mishraile, Karys, Ilawen and whatever Dedicated and Soldiers had survived the skirmish were safely under his responsibility, M’Hael realised that he was eager to get to the battlefield. He was impatient, restless. He was looking forward to a chance to face al’Thor one-on-one. He was the person responsible for this bloody mess, after all. If the mighty Lord Dragon had deigned partake in the affairs of the Black Tower, none of this would have happened.

If not for al’Thor, Neya would still be here, with M’Hael. She wouldn’t be doing Light-knew-what in flaming Shara – if that was where she was, as he suspected. He sensed her now, quite clearly. The mind barriers had collapsed at some point as he was being tortured. She was worried about him. _Fat lot of good that does me_ , M’Hael thought bitterly.

Two weeks ago… _something_ had happened. M’Hael wasn’t sure what. Neya had been nervous and overexcited all day, so much that when M’Hael had taken down the mind-made barriers surrounding their bond, he’d felt jittery himself. _She was quite busy that night, too_ , he remembered wistfully.

Abruptly, he realised that the pain was gone – or, at least, Moridin had released the weave that caused it. M’Hael hastened to erect the mind barriers once more, shutting Neya out of this merry mess.

M’Hael felt like every single nerve in his body was on fire, and his muscles were cramped. He lay there on the ground for some time with no notion of time. His breathing was laborious, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t see or hear clearly. Had he fainted?

Then he frowned, consciousness slowly resurfacing. Where was Moridin? M’Hael chanced a glance around, twisting his head with some difficulty.

The _Nae’blis_ was still there, but he was not alone. M’Hael blinked twice, to dispel the fog of dizziness, and at last distinguished the other person’s face – Demandred.

Trolloc balls! That was all he needed right now.

The two Chosen were apparently in the middle of an argument. “…thought I was supposed to take him to-” Demandred was saying.

“Given the circumstances, I’m not sure it’s the best course of action,” Moridin interrupted him.

“What choice do we have?” Demandred protested. “Ablar is out of our reach, unless you intend to mount an assault against the Black Tower to recover him.” Moridin made no reply to that, but his glower ought to have burned through Demandred. “No one can replace Taim now. We need him to lead the Asha’man into battle. I cannot be everywhere at once, Moridin.”

“Is that really your concern here? That it might interfere with the battle?” Moridin demanded scornfully. “Or are you worried about how _she_ might react if he died?”

Demandred schooled his emotions quickly, but M’Hael caught the murderous glare before the Chosen replied. “Are you doubting me?” he asked in a dangerously soft tone. “I, alone, have successfully accomplished something of worth in this cursed Age. If not for me, you would have _nothing_. This pathetic, untrained lot, and nothing more,” he added with a gesture encompassing the general area where M’Hael lay. The Black Tower, in other words. M’Hael grimaced involuntarily. How he wished he could punch the other man… Yes, punch. The raw, physical release of several months’ worth of frustration, depression, anger and loathing. M’Hael might break his hand upon contact with the bloody man’s stony face, but it would be worth it. Demandred hadn’t even deigned give him news of Neya, not once since he’d taken her! By the Blight, if not for the bond, M’Hael wouldn’t even know she was alive.

Speaking of Neya… Was she the implied _she_ in Moridin’s question? No, it didn’t make any sense. Why would Demandred care what Neya thought?

But who else would care if Mazrim died?

_M’Hael_ , he scolded himself. _Mazrim Taim_ _is dead_. _He died when Neya was taken away._ He felt a wave of nausea, so sudden and implacable that he retched on the floor before he could stop himself, splattering his new coat. Both Chosen glanced in his direction. There was absolute, ominous silence, until Moridin let out a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he stated with an air of fatality. “We go on as planned. We don’t really have a choice, I suppose, though he hardly deserves the honour granted him.” He snorted. “None of you deserve it,” he muttered contemptuously. Without another word, he vanished into thin air.

M’Hael knew he should get up. He hated being sprawled on the floor, clothes mottled with vomit, while Demandred stood upright, not a hair out of place. But would he manage to stay on his feet? If he collapsed, he would look even more ridiculous. Why was the bloody Chosen even here? He hadn’t showed his face since-

“For the record, I think this is a grave mistake,” Demandred declared tonelessly.

“What is?” M’Hael asked curiously. “Me? I'm sure my mother would have agreed.” He chuckled at his own self-deprecating jest. Light, he really ought to stand. He gingerly heaved himself to a sitting position, forearms resting on his knees. His head swam. He closed his eyes, inhaling shallow breaths, until it passed. Demandred remained silent while he recuperated. When he was certain he wouldn’t pass out, M’Hael opened his eyes and glared at the Chosen. “What do you want, then? If you need more Asha'man, I’m afraid now is not the best-”

“Moridin wants me to take you to Shayol Ghul,” Demandred announced without preamble, his face devoid of emotion.

That brought M’Hael up short. He’d never really thought… Moridin had hinted at it, certainly, but M’Hael had assumed it was just another empty promise. He swallowed hard. “If you think it’s such a mistake, why did you argue in favour of it? Moridin was going to kill me,” he remarked matter-of-factly. Demandred made no reply, his green gaze intense and unforthcoming. All of this was decidedly odd.

“Shall we?” Demandred enquired eventually. “I do not have all day.”

“Wh-what, n-now?” M’Hael winced at his own stuttering. He wasn’t even sure he could stand, let alone Travel to Shayol Ghul to pledge his soul to the Dark One.

Demandred scowled, eyes darkening. “I knew that you were not ready.”

M’Hael allowed himself a brief moment to contemplate his options. Mm. What options? He repressed the mounting laughter in his throat and regained his composure with some effort. “Of course I'm ready. It's about bloody time.”

* * *

Bao opened a gateway at the feet of Shayol Ghul. The great mountain loomed overhead like a colossal, menacing embodiment of the Great Lord Himself. They would have to walk the rest of the way. Channeling too close to the entrance of the Pit was sometimes…chancy.

Taim must have been in agony but, to his credit, it barely showed. If Bao had not assisted to Moridin’s…disciplinary session, he might not have noticed that anything was amiss. The man was always stiff, so his present rigidness could have passed for his usual gait. After the initial shock, Taim's face had smoothed into a mask of resolute impassiveness.

Bao was not sure why he had protested against Moridin. Taim was better off dead – it would be preferable for everyone if he died, including Taim himself, most likely. It would certainly profit Bao.

But they did need new recruits. Semirhage had been blasted into inexistence, Mesaana’s mind was broken beyond repair, and Aran’gar had been Balefired away in the destruction of Natrin’s Barrow – an ill-advised mistake on Graendal’s part, for which she had paid a heavy toll. This close to the end, it made sense to eliminate the competition, but few as they were… They still had to win the Last Battle, after all. The Shadowspawn alone could not assure the Shadow’s triumph, no matter how numerous they may be, and Bao was only one man. Capable as he was, he was pragmatic enough to recognise that he could not lead the Shadow’s armies on his own. He needed reliable lieutenants. Taim was the best suited for the task, given Graendal's – Hessalam’s – propensity to backstab her so-called allies. Moghedien and Cyndane likely had hidden agendas, but they were both Mindtrapped, entirely at Moridin’s mercy. As for Asmodean, he had had the nerve to reject Moridin’s generous offer. Why he was still alive was a complete mystery to Bao. Despite his earlier assurance that he did not care for the man, Moridin did appear to have a soft spot for the Musician.

In any case, getting rid of Taim after the battle would be child’s play. And Moridin would not survive; he obviously did not want to, and the Great Lord, upon being satisfied that his mission was completed, would finally award him the final rest he yearned for.

That left Bao as the last possible contender for the position of _Nae’blis_ , when everything was played out. He alone had never failed the Great Lord. He had earned his reward a thousand times over.

As they began to ascend the rocky, uneven path along the side of the mountain, Bao was taken by an almost irresistible desire to break it to Taim that he had married Neya. Thankfully, he suppressed the urge before the words could tumble inadvertently out of his mouth. Why would he do that? Why did he _want_ to do that? Bao was not a boastful man. He was not jealous. Not of the likes of Taim, certainly. In any case, Neya seemed to have forgotten about him. She had not mentioned him in weeks; she never enquired about his well-being, or about the Black Tower in general. She had moved on, and rightly so. Taim was a wreck, by all accounts. The madness had taken him. Of course, male Dreadlords had always been assured that they would be protected from the taint, but that was a mere incentive. They were given the illusion of channeling uncontaminated _saidin_ , nothing more. Only the Chosen were truly shielded from the taint’s effects – or they used to be, when the taint was still corrupting _saidin._

Thunder boomed in the distance; lightning bolted upward from the harsh landscape below, in the desolate valley of Thakan'dar, where myriad Trollocs and Myrddraal were milling about, as well as various Shadowspawn and Friends of the Dark. The air was freezing cold, and yet too dry to allow for ice or snow.

Bao did not let the biting cold touch him, but he felt a shiver of trepidation at the idea of visiting the Pit of Doom. Thus it always was: Bao both dreaded and relished these audiences with the Great Lord. He liked to compare the experience with having sex; the arousing pain was always pleasurable to him, but he was fully aware that too much of it would kill him. Though he did not think he would even realise, let alone mind, were that to happen.

They walked in utter silence and eventually reached the entrance of the cave. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. It might have been an hour or a day. Time was a fickle thing, this close to the Bore. Without a word, Bao entered the narrow stone corridor. He was pleased to notice that the height of the passage allowed him to advance without having to stoop. It rarely did.

He did not look back to see how Taim was faring, but when they reached the Pit itself, the man was covered with bloody scratches, clothes torn in multiple places. He looked outwardly collected, but it did not last. His eyes widened in dazed reverence, not at the sight of the great lava lake or multi-coloured clouds in the otherworldly sky above, but at the Voice that was undoubtedly speaking to him. Bao, of course, could not hear what was being said. He was only here to bear witness of Taim’s Ascension.

With a bit of luck, the Great Lord would decide that Taim was not worthy after all and blast him out of the Pattern unceremoniously.

It was not so. After a moment, Taim nodded weakly, eyes glazed, and collapsed – but that was merely an effect of the Great Lord’s blessing being bestowed upon him. He would come to in a minute, when his body had time to adjust. Bao was tempted to abandon him and leave him to find his own way out – there was only one way out; even a simpleton of this Age could not get lost. He had better things to do. Shadow only knew how much time he’d already wasted-

“WASTED?” the Voice resounded in his mind, startling him so badly that he fell to his knees. “IS IT A WASTE OF YOUR TIME, DEMANDRED, TO EXECUTE MY WILL?”

“No, Great Lord,” Bao assured Him. He did not have to actually utter the words out loud, but in his shock he did so anyway. “Never. My eagerness to serve knows no bound. My deeds speak for themselves.”

“YOU HAVE DONE WELL,” the Voice crooned. Bao swelled with pride. Lews Therin had often complimented him on his achievements, but the man’s words were empty, devoid of meaning. They were poisonous, mocking; just another way to underline the fact that, whatever Barid had accomplished, Lews had already done it at least twice, and better. But when the Great Lord praised him, Bao knew it was sincere approval. He had overtaken everyone else. He was the best, at long last. He had no equal. Not even Moridin. The _Nae’blis_ was only a means to an end to the Great Lord. His sacrifice was required, and Bao was more than happy to let him do the honours. Bao would be there to glean the bountiful rewards.

“INDEED. YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO RULE, DEMANDRED. AND RULE YOU SHALL. THE WORLD AS ONE WILL BOW DOWN TO YOU.” Bao’s eyes must have taken on the same glassy appearance as Taim’s, but he was only barely aware of this. At the moment, his body was a mere receptacle. He floated on the edge of consciousness, his mind quavering with dreadful awe. Here were the words he had been waiting for, the promise for which he had forsaken his soul. “AND YOU SHALL KNEEL ONLY TO ME.”

“Of course, Great Lord,” he murmured. His voice sounded faint, as though coming from a great distance. “I live to serve.” Moridin had been wrong all along. The Last Battle would not be the end. It was only a beginning, a new Turning of the Wheel. One over which Bao would forever preside.

With Neya at his side. He would make her immortal, and together they would-

“HARBINGER OF CHAOS,” the Voice exploded, shattering Bao’s almost peaceful stupor. There was a sharp pain, and blood trickled down his ears, but Bao sensed…uneasiness, which was so uncharacteristic, so alien in this place, that it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. “SHE MUST BE DISPOSED OF, BEFORE THE END.”

Bao blinked, somewhat dispelling his trance-like state. Disposed of? No, he must have misunderstood. “She is loyal to me, Great Lord. Entirely so. I made certain of that. She-”

“HEED AND OBEY, BLADE TWISTER.” There was a long, ominous pause, during which the atmosphere in the cave became so oppressive that Bao felt his lungs struggle for air. “I COMMAND YOU.”

The cave shook with the intensity of the Voice in Bao’s head, flames erupting from the Pit, sky darkening with storm clouds of unnatural colours. “SLAY HER, DEMANDRED, OR FORFEIT YOUR REWARD.”

* * *

Neya was terribly worried about Mazrim. She’d felt his pain, earlier. For a moment, the barriers he had erected between their minds had cracked, sending her reeling with sudden anguish. It had lasted too long, much too long. How could he stand it?

It had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The barriers had been forcefully slammed back into position. And then the bond had crumbled to nothing a few hours later.

She couldn’t feel anything now, not even the faintest awareness of Mazrim’s presence in the back of her mind. Was he dead? He couldn’t be.

If Mazrim had died… She’d be hysterical, wouldn’t she? That was how the process was always described – an acute sense of loss, a grief too appalling to contemplate, a thirst for revenge and a longing for death. That was not how she felt, though she did feel the loss of him, in a way.

She had never experienced the intentional severing of a bond before, but she thought it the most likely explanation. Mazrim must have broken their connection willingly – at last. She could hardly blame him, given the circumstances. In fact, she wondered why he hadn’t done it before. If she had been forced to feel Mazrim entertaining other women… It would have driven her mad. And if he'd fallen in love with someone else... It would have crushed her. She realised she was being unfair, considering that that was precisely what she was doing to him, but she couldn't help it.

What worried her most, however, was that Bao had been gone all day, and Neya didn’t know where he was or what he was up to. Was it mere coincidence? Should she question him, when he finally returned?

Did any of it really matter?

She should be focusing on making up her mind regarding more pressing issues. Should she attempt anything to prevent Bao from rallying the Last Battle when it began? What _could_ she possibly do? She’d been desperate to change his mind, but it seemed hopeless. He’d dismissed her theory about the _jumara_ being the dragon he was meant to slay without hesitation. It was ridiculous, he said. Lews Therin was the Dragon, period.

Neya always corrected him and called him Rand, but it was futile. The two men were one and the same, in Bao’s mind, and he was quite intent on killing him. Nothing she said would change his mind – Light knew she’d tried every possible argument she could think of, even pleading that Rand was her friend, that they used to play together when they were children, that everyone in her tiny village was like extended family to her. Bao had briefly hesitated at that, at least, but then he’d shaken his head stubbornly. Neya was the one who was in the wrong; Lews Therin had been deceiving her, manipulating her feelings for him, as he had always done.

Shendla had proven remarkably useless. She pretended that it was up to Neya to make Bao see sense. She, on the other hand, would follow Bao regardless of the path he chose, in the end. Which made Neya wonder if the bloody woman hadn’t been deceiving her all along and really just wanted Bao for herself. Bao had confirmed that she was not a Darkfriend, but unreciprocated love and jealousy could easily throw people over the edge. There was a fine line between Light and Shadow, Neya had discovered over the past two years, and she herself was tiptoeing on its very fringe.

Her task was made even more complicated by the fact that the Sharans, as a whole, had taken in stride the fact that Bao was their saviour and king. The cheering during the coronation had been deafening, and the festivities had lasted for four days – the number four was considered a good omen in these lands. They practically worshipped Bao – well, the masses did, in any case. Galbrait still resented him for his coup, and likely for cutting off her arm. Admittedly, that would induce bitterness and anger in anyone.

Neya couldn’t be sure how the other Ayyad felt. They were bound to Galbrait by oath, but now that their leader had sworn fealty to Bao… Which of them had their loyalty? Taimaka seemed to appreciate Bao; she considered him a just ruler, and a man endowed with surprising amounts of common sense. Other Ayyad thought he was breaking millennial traditions and were outraged, but only some of them felt that way. All in all, they appeared quite divided and conflicted, especially about Neya herself. That an _ulikar_ could become their queen, and was stronger in the Power than any of them besides… Neya didn’t think she would receive any help from them.

The nobility was equally embittered. Bao had stolen their property, as they saw it, and had not offered any sort of compensation. But, by and large, they were cowards at heart. They wouldn’t revolt against Bao’s rule on their own – not without their slaves to use as shields and cannon fodder. Mercenaries were always happy to pledge their swords to the highest bidder, but Bao was the Wyld and, apparently, even mercenaries were reluctant to oppose him. He was, after all, a powerful channeler, a _male_ channeler. Neya wasn’t certain how things had changed in the West since the cleansing of the taint, but in Shara a male Ayyad was still considered a highly volatile element. Especially now that they were free to roam about as they pleased, thanks to gateways.

Bao had indeed freed them, along with the entire slave population – which, Neya had recently found out, represented almost half the total population of Shara – but she had a feeling that the male Ayyad felt more loyal to her than to the Wyld. Then again, now that they were married, the boys probably didn’t differentiate. The king and queen were both worthy of their loyalty in equal measure. Asking them to choose between Bao and Neya would be like asking a child which parent they preferred.

Mintel wasn’t concerned in the least. _The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills_. _There is no good or evil_ …and so many other phrases were all he would offer as counsel. Things would turn out as they were supposed to; everything – their whole lives, the passing of Ages – was predetermined. They could not alter fate. They should just…go with the flow, as Mintel put it.

In the end, that left Kal – and Abrazo, and Torn, because the latter would likely follow his lover, if he had to pick a side, and Abe would follow Kal no matter what. Kal was the only person who’d ever decried Bao openly. Openly, and in front of Bao himself, the day after the coronation. That had earned him a dismissive scolding, not from the king but from Galbrait, of all people. The woman was Aes Sedai material, alright. Duplicitous and hypocritical to the core.

Neya felt a twinge of guilt for thinking that. Those were Mazrim’s words, not hers. The only Aes Sedai she’d ever encountered was Moiraine, and the woman had sacrificed herself to save them all.

It was a conundrum. A very frustrating one. And it was not just the present situation; her whole life, since Elan had captured her, had become a bloody puzzle. And Neya had a feeling that it was not going to get easier in the days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Adastreia (NearDeathMetalJen) for allowing me to use the expression “Trolloc balls”. It’s beautiful. <3


	68. It's too adorable to kill

Neya stood on the balcony, arms crossed on the guardrail. The night was hot and stuffy, but the sky was cloudless, which gave her a great view on the myriad stars burning bright above. For most of her life, she’d had no idea what stars were. She’d always pictured them as blazing torches planted at irregular intervals in the celestial vault. Bao had corrected her with what she suspected would have turned into an amused smile, if he hadn’t held it back at the last moment.

Well, whatever they were, the sight was so entrancing that Neya didn’t hear Bao when he joined her on the balcony. She jumped a little when he leaned against the guardrail beside her and reflexively put a hand on her abdomen.

“Is something wrong?” Bao asked with a trace of worry at the gesture.

Instead of replying, Neya took his hand and placed it on her belly. The bump was not showing as much as she’d anticipated, after five months. The midwife claimed it was different for every woman; there were no norms where pregnancy was concerned.

Barely a second went by before the baby kicked again. Bao’s eyes widened. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him so plainly startled. “It’s been acting up for over an hour,” Neya explained. Nyamukuta had warned her that it might start moving soon, but Neya hadn’t known what to expect. She’d awakened with a start, certain that she was having contractions – she’d never experienced those, either. Then she’d laughed when she realised what was happening; she’d been on the verge of sounding the alarm and rousing the entire palace.

“Does it hurt?” He often asked that, regarding pretty much anything. It was as though he couldn’t decide what was supposed to hurt and what wasn't. To Bao, mere mortals had a seriously low threshold for pain.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s just…strange.” It was stunning and wonderful, but she felt silly thinking that. All babies kicked; it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But to actually feel her baby moving, to know that there was a living human being growing inside her… She hadn’t fully realised that until now. She couldn’t help but imagine how Mazrim would react, if he were the one with his hand on her belly at this very moment.

Neya hastily dismissed him from her mind. She couldn’t dwell on him, on what could have been. That ship had sailed, as the saying went. She was with Bao now, for better and for worse – and she had a bad feeling that the worse awaited them.

“You should rest,” Bao murmured.

“I can’t sleep,” she replied. “I feel as restless as the baby.”

Bao considered for a moment. “Would you care to take a walk with me?”

Neya blinked in surprise – that was not how they usually dealt with sleeplessness – but she agreed. She expected a stroll through the gardens, but Bao opened a gateway instead. On the other side lay massive ruins, situated on a mountain ridge. Bao stepped through and offered her a hand, which she accepted. She hadn’t gained much weight – not yet – but she was feeling ungainly all the same, especially with the baby kicking and moving around.

The ruins were really just that, ruins; a heap of dry-stone walls scattered across a rather large area. She could barely distinguish the outline. “Is this a relic of your Age?” Neya wondered as Bao let the gateway close behind them.

“Of the First Age,” he corrected her.

Neya stared at it all with renewed interest and fascination. How could anything have lasted throughout not only one, but two Ages? It wasn’t in good condition, but it was there nonetheless. It must have been a large building of sorts, or a cluster of smaller ones. “What was it?”

“No one really knows, though many a scholar attempted to determine its purpose. It used to be a famous tourist site, in our days. It is apparently one of the few things that were not displaced or destroyed during the Breaking.”

“Are there other remnants from the First Age? Or from the Age of-” She cut off. He didn’t like to call it that. "From the Second Age," she amended.

“Very few. The Portal Stones are the only functioning artefacts from the First Age, but various objects have made it through the Breaking.”

“Like the glowbulbs.”

Bao nodded. “Yes, we recovered several of those in stasis boxes across the world.” Thanks to Elan, Neya already knew what a stasis box was, though she’d never seen one. “The Citadel, in Kigali, is also a vestige of our Age, though it has suffered many alterations, and has been rebuilt several times so that it looks very little like the original building,” Bao continued. “It used to be the Conservatory of Mar Ruois.”

Elan and Jasin had both mentioned the Conservatory, which had been a school where one could learn the musical arts. Jasin had studied there, and Elan had taught the piano for a few years, sometime between his retirement as a professor at the University of V’saine and his infamous betrayal in the Hall of Servants. Neya turned to Bao, whose green eyes had taken a faraway look. “Do you miss any of it?” she asked him quietly.

“Not at all,” he replied without skipping a beat. “Despite what you may have been led to believe, it was hardly the utopic world your scholars picture. We had superior technology and commodities, certainly, but society was as flawed then as it is now.”

“But there were no wars,” Neya pointed out. “Not before the Collapse.”

Bao snorted with contempt. “Of course there were wars. Not in V’saine or Mar Ruois, but in the less advanced parts of the world, there was always strife and violence. We who lived in the Western and Eastern Territories were more than happy to overlook this, because it was happening so far away. It was not our concern. We considered ourselves superior to the primitive barbarians who inhabited the Northern Lands.”

Neya remembered what Elan had told her, that Barid Bel had travelled much in his youth. He must have witnessed this in person. “What about the south? Did people live there?”

“It was inhospitable in our days. Nothing like the Blight – it was a frozen wasteland. Nothing could ever grow there, and few species could survive the cold. But that was very far south. The Western and Eastern Territories took up most of the world map.”

They were silent for a while as they strolled amongst the ancient stones. The air was pleasantly cool, thanks to the altitude. The wind blew hard around them, but Bao had apparently created a _saidin_ -woven buffer to shield them from the worst of it. “It couldn’t be that bad, though,” Neya said after a while. “There were no Darkfriends. And many people were famous intellectuals. Or artists. Or Aes Sedai.”

“Being renowned does not make one a good person,” Bao pointed out.

Neya waited for it.

“Lews Therin was not as perfect as the stories would have you believe,” he added with unconcealed scorn.

 _There it is_ , she thought wryly. She’d never really believed that, in truth. Elan had made it quite clear that the Dragon’s reputation had been far from immaculate, though most people readily overlooked and forgave his…eccentricities, in view of Lews Therin’s contributions to the world at large. But it was better to move on before Bao started ranting again. Neya said the first thing that crossed her mind to distract him – a bad habit she really ought to lose. “Bao, I know you were never married before, but…” Blood and ashes! This was hardly a better topic of conversation, but she had been avoiding it for too long. “Did you…um…that is, has there ever been an important woman in your life?”

He glanced at her sideways. “Of course. Several.” Neya felt a twinge of jealousy. Yes, well. She had walked right into that, hadn’t she? What had she expected? That he’d been chaste for four hundred years? He had been famous, and he was handsome. There must have been throngs of women willing to-

“But you are not like any other woman I have ever known,” he continued.

Neya frowned. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take that,” she remarked.

Bao indicated a portion of the stone wall where they could sit. Neya noticed that the baby was not kicking anymore. Perhaps it had finally gone to sleep. Come to think of that, did unborn babies sleep? She shook her head, dispelling the completely irrelevant question. She was trying to evade the present conversation – which she had started herself, burn her for a fool. Bao was gazing at her with his customary intensity. “I’ve courted astronomers, theologians, philosophers, Aes Sedai…” he began. Neya suppressed a grimace. Now he was just being mean. “People whom I considered my equals.” He paused. “We were all quite arrogant. So full of ourselves. But I never realised the full extent of it until I travelled up north. That journey altered my perception of the world I lived in. I was not the same man when I returned.” He wasn’t really addressing her remark, Neya noted. “But in all my travels, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

“What does that make me, then?”

“You are genuine. You are…you. You refuse to be defined by people’s expectations of who you should be. You are not a people-pleaser, despite everything you have been through – and you have survived ordeals I never could have imagined one of this Age to overcome.”

Neya chuckled. He _did_ realise that he had begun as one of those ordeals, yes? “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant to be one.”

Light, but she hated it when he was so impossibly adorable. Well, she loved it, but it made her so bloody conflicted. She’d been here for months, and they were married, but he still surprised her more often than she cared to admit. He was a man of many hidden depths. “Bao…” She hesitated. This was a beautiful night, without doubt one of their last together. Did she really want to ruin it?

She didn’t want to. But she _had_ to. The end was nigh, as Bao put it. She wouldn’t get many more opportunities. “You want to become _Nae’blis_ , correct?” Bao nodded slowly; at first he seemed perplexed by the sudden transition, but perplexity quickly gave way to resignation. He knew what was coming: yet another attempt at changing his mind. “Then the Dark One will always be your master, and you its servant.” Now he was scowling. “Doesn’t that bother you? Honestly, try as I might, I can’t picture you bowing and scraping to anyone, even the Dark One.” Neya already knew that she couldn’t convince him that the world would end, if the Dark One was victorious. She’d tried that argument before, several variations of it, in vain. This was her latest angle of approach – and possibly her last. She was running out of ideas.

Bao was silent for a long moment. Neya wondered if she’d angered him; his face was a mask. He usually displayed legendary amounts of patience whenever she tried to divert him from his ultimate objective, but perhaps he’d finally run out.

“I have not yet decided…” he began to say, then closed his mouth, his teeth clicking audibly. “Slaying Lews Therin is merely the first step,” he stated eventually. “Once I become _Nae’blis_ … I suppose I may have to destroy the Great Lord myself, if I want the world to be truly mine, and to rid it of His nefarious influence.”

Neya stared at him in stupefaction. He wanted to _destroy_ the Dark One? That was new. He’d never mentioned this before – or anything even remotely resembling it. Light, what _had_ happened the previous day? Bao had returned from his secret mission late last evening, and he had not been in a good mood, to say the least. He’d refused to say anything about it, however. “But… If you're going to end up killing the Dark One anyway, why fight for the Shadow at all? Shouldn’t you-”

“Lews Therin must die.” His voice was hard, unyielding.

She almost cursed aloud, but refrained at the last moment. Bloody Lews Therin again! Was it possible to feel jealous of a kinslaying madman? Sometimes, Neya wished the man was dead, too, just so Bao would stop bringing him up all the flaming time. _But Lews Therin_ is _dead, you ninny_ , a little voice reminded her sternly. _He means Rand. You know that._ “No,” Neya corrected him eventually. “You _want_ him to die. He doesn't _have_ to. Bao, if you killed the Dark One before the Last Battle… If you assisted Rand in doing so…” She trailed off, knowing she’d gone too far.

As expected, Bao stared at her as though she were mad. “Assist him? He would only do as he has always done: let me handle the hard work, and take credit for the deed. I would never allow such a thing.” His voice was cold steel, filled with contempt and bitterness. His eyes glowed with loathing. “You truly have a way of turning matters on their head.” Neya understood right away that he was deflecting the conversation.

Blood and ashes, nothing would make him change course. Even though Bao seemed to agree that the Dark One had to be eradicated eventually, Lews Therin stood in the way – and always would, until Bao was satisfied that the man was dead, preferably by his own hand. But Neya couldn’t possibly wish for Rand’s death and risk dooming the world.

It was a lost cause.

And yet she had no other option but to keep on trying. She would not give up. She was far too stubborn for that.

* * *

Bao brushed aside a stray lock of hair from Neya’s face. She was soundly asleep and snoring softly, an arm draped across his chest. He could feel the baby kicking gently against the bare, slightly-stretched skin of her belly. What a bizarre sensation. He had never been so aware that a living being was growing inside her.

If he decided to obey the Great Lord’s command, and to do it before the Last Battle began, he might not get another opportunity. _Tarmon Gai’don_ was upon them _._

 _If_ he decided to obey? A risky choice of words. Failure to comply would undo everything he had worked so hard to achieve over the past two years – and in his time as a Chosen during the War of Power. It might also mean his death. The Great Lord was neither merciful nor forgiving, and He didn’t abide disobedience.

Killing Neya would mean ending two lives at once. Could Bao really murder a pregnant woman in cold blood? He had never balked at murdering innocents before, whenever necessary, but…his pregnant wife? The woman he-

 _Loved_. The woman he loved. He was still struggling with the realisation. He had never intended to actually fall in love with Neya – she had been a means to an end, nothing more. And now he had sworn an oath to her, in front of thousands of witnesses. _I shall ever protect and shield you from harm. I shall care for you and our children._ Bao was no oath breaker, but what was he to do, when his oath to Neya contradicted the one he had sworn to the Great Lord? The latter ought to prevail, he knew.

Darkness within! He had already sacrificed everything to get his revenge on Lews Therin. His soul, his reputation, his friends and family. And still the Great Lord demanded more from him? Neya was not even a threat! She loved him. She would never betray him.

Did he truly mean what he had told her earlier? The idea of defeating the Great Lord had often crossed his mind, even after he joined the Shadow, and was presently stuck in his head, since his visit to Shayol Ghul the previous day. Bowing and scraping, as Neya put it, was indeed not Bao’s strong point, even if one could hardly do anything else when in the glorious presence of the Great Lord of the Dark.

Could it even be done? Could He be killed? Bao doubted it.

But surely, once the battle was over, the Great Lord would have no reason to interfere in the affairs of the world, not when his greatest enemy, the champion of the Light, the only possible threat to his eternal reign, was annihilated.

But did Bao really believe that? He was not so certain anymore. Neya’s continued efforts to throw him off course were starting to affect him.

He let out a faint groan of frustration. Neya snored louder in reply. He watched her sleep. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable. She was utterly oblivious of her own part in all this. Dare he allow her to live, and hope that the Great Lord would absolve him when he slayed Lews Therin and claimed the title of _Nae’blis_?

Dare he take that risk, knowing that Moridin may have been correct about her, after all? She really was messing with his head.

What Bao knew for certain was that he would never aid Lews Therin. The very idea was preposterous. The man had to die, and that meant that everything had to go on as planned, at least for the time being. And after the battle… There would be plenty of time to reassess the situation then.

Bao had come this far; there could be no turning back now. He would have it all: Neya, the world, and Lews Therin's head on a spike. He would settle for nothing less. The Great Lord owed him that much.

Therefore Neya would live, and no harm would come to her or their child, not while Bao lived.

He was a gambler at heart, and it was a risk he was willing to take.

* * *

M’Hael remembered very little of his Ascension to the rank of Chosen. An ethereal voice, then an indescribable sensation followed by raw terror, mind-blowing awe, seething rage. Followed by numb nothingness.

The bond he shared with Neya had been altered in the process. It was still there, buried deep under layers of darkness and corruption resulting from the Dark One’s touch, but…faded. Eclipsed by everything else, easy to overlook unless he concentrated. He could discern her existence, barely, but not her emotions, no sense of what she was feeling at all.

He wondered if she could still feel him at all, or if she assumed he’d died. It would certainly be preferable for her to believe that.

Demandred had made no comment as M’Hael – his official name now – rose gracefully to his feet, all trace of his previous torment vanished. He was tingling with renewed energy; his senses were heightened, as though he were holding _saidin_. He’d never felt better.

The euphoria was short-lived, however. Moridin materialised in M’Hael’s new, makeshift study mere hours after his Ascension.

The Last Battle had begun.


	69. There's no point getting all annoyed

The dream had come again, unbidden. It had been so long; Neya didn't think she'd relived the scene once since Lanfear had released her, almost a year ago. It seemed like another lifetime.

She saw herself come out of the small cottage, basket in hand, so young and carefree. In a moment, she would reach the sheep pen, and then she would hear her mother scream in terror. And, as was the way of nightmares, she would witness the entire scene in painful detail. Unable to close her eyes or look away, Neya braced herself.

"You don't have to watch, you know," said a voice close behind her.

Startled, Neya spun around to face the owner of the voice. He was a youthful man, as tall as Rand himself, with black hair and piercing blue eyes. He was beautiful, except for a distinct cleft in his chin. Neya had never seen him before, but Bao had described him to her: she stood before the  _Nae'blis_ , Moridin – Death itself made flesh.

Around her, the dream retreated. The farmyard that had been her childhood home and the nearby woods made place to smooth black walls. They were standing in a dimly lit room, with no furniture that she could see. The ceiling appeared to be made of flames, although no heat reached her.

Neya knew that she should have knelt; a few months ago, she would have. Now she simply stared at Moridin, the upstart Chosen. "What do you want?" she asked coolly, placing her hands on her hips. Bao would be furious when he found out about this.

"Such fearlessness," the _Nae’blis_ retorted with a twisted grin. "You haven't changed at all, pet."

Neya’s eyes widened in astonishment. "Elan?" He didn't answer, but his smile softened. "How long have you–" She cut off, shaking her head. Bao had told her that some of the Forsaken Rand had done away with had been reincarnated in new bodies, but he had made no mention of Ishamael. And yet Neya didn’t doubt for a second that her husband had known exactly who Moridin was from the beginning. She would have a word with him when she returned. "Why did you wait so long to find me?" she whispered.

"I wasn't going to come at all," Elan muttered darkly. "Yet here I am, against my better judgement." He summoned something out of thin air. "I thought you might want to have this, before the end." It was  _Tsorovan_ , the Power-wrought yatagan he had given her when she was with him. "Although I'm afraid you won't have much time to enjoy it."

Neya took it, gripping the familiar handle, admiring the violet-blue edge of the blade. "It has begun, hasn't it?" she asked quietly. Elan nodded. "So this is it. The Last Battle."

"An end to it all, at long last," he said wistfully.

"It doesn't have to be the end."

"I want it to be," he said, almost too low for her to hear. "I  _need_  it to be," he went on, more forcefully this time.

"Elan, you don't have to be alone. I'm here for you. I can help."

He chuckled softly. "Always the same. You're too caring for your own good, little girl." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "To think you managed to ensnare Barid Bel, of all people," he said eventually, a grin slowly spreading on his face.

" _Ensnare_?" she repeated incredulously. "I did nothing of the sort! Light, I don't even know how it happened in the first place."

" _Ta'veren_ ," Elan murmured.

"I knew it!" Neya cried out with a triumphant smile. "He is, isn't he? That's how he became the Wyld and brought the whole nation to heel so quickly," she went on smugly.

Elan was shaking his head, however. "Not him," he said, fixing his sparkling blue eyes on hers. "You."

Neya was speechless for a moment, until she realised she was gaping at him quite stupidly. "But…I haven't done anything! Bao’s the one who accomplished all the Sharan prophecies, not me. He's the Wyld, the king."

"You have done more than you know," Elan told her. “In a way, your _ta’veren_ nature is stronger even than al’Thor’s. He, as well as Cauthon and Aybara, have a determined purpose: to insure the victory of the Light.” As he spoke, he sat down and gestured for her to imitate him. Neya hadn't noticed the two armchairs that were now in the room; likely, he had just summoned them with _saidin_ , as he always did. Or were they still inside her dream, somehow? Was this what Elan called _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , the World of Dreams? She didn't know if he could use the Power in this place.

“Your role, pet, on the other hand, was ever a puzzle,” he went on after she took a seat. “Which is why I captured you, by the way. To keep you away from the world. I didn’t know what your purpose was, whether you would work for or against us. It soon appeared obvious that you would not willingly forsake the Light, but I saw no point in Turning you by force. It was simply safer to keep you away from the main chain of events, so you could not influence anything - or anyone. But then I died, and Lanfear, senseless Mierin, released you into the world, without even bothering to leash you properly. She was always too arrogant, that one, overconfident – it is what killed her, in the end. She didn’t see you for who you were, she assumed that you were just another pawn. Though she did keep an eye on you, at least – that Aielman you liked, what was his name? Ah, it doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively before Neya had a chance to speak. “He was Lanfear’s puppet, and he was supposed to dispose of you, should you prove treacherous. Which you did, of course, but what did the man do? Instead of killing you, he protected you with his life, and fought the Trollocs and Friends of the Dark who were his allies!”

Neya could only stare in perplexed silence. At this point, the fact that she’d shared her tent with a Darkfriend did not particularly perturb her, but what in the Pit of Doom was Elan trying to say?

“You are a completely random piece in this game. The Chaotic One, the One Who Lived. I had a feeling it was you, all along, which is why I removed you from the game board, but I never imagined how unpredictable you would turn out to be, or the consequences of your actions, of your mere presence around my own puppets and subordinates.”

“That sounds like a title, what you called me,” Neya pointed out. “The Chaotic One? Do you really take the time to give everyone a code name like that, not just the Forsaken?”

Elan didn’t smile. “The Great Lord names the Chosen, I’ve told you this before. And I didn’t come up with these, pet. You were mentioned several times in the Prophecies.”

“The Karaethon Cycle?” Neya asked, bewildered. “I think that if I were part of them, Rand would have kept me around. He’s read them a thousand times over, studied them. Surely he wouldn’t-”

“Not the Karaethon Cycle,” Elan cut her off. “ _Our_ Prophecies. The Prophecies of the Shadow, as they are dubbed by certain scholars of your Age. You are mentioned subtly, mainly at the end, sometimes in random parts I could not fit in anywhere. To sum it up, it says that everything that’s prophesised – the issue of the Last Battle, the Light’s ultimate defeat, the end of time – may all be reversed if _you_ make the wrong choices. Or the right ones, depending on where you stand, I suppose,” he added with a nonchalant shrug.

Neya didn’t even know that the Shadow had its own prophecies, let alone that she was a part of them. It was a lot to take in. She didn’t know what to say.

Elan went on, oblivious to her bafflement. “I assume the Eelfinn did not expect to see you.”

That shook her out of her thoughts of prophecies and _ta’veren_. “How did you know?” The blasted Foxes had repeated quite a few times that she was not supposed to be in their realm, which had surprised her. Mat had assured her that they knew everything.

“I’ve encountered them several times,” Elan replied. Neya thought people were not allowed to visit the Finn more than once, but perhaps that didn’t apply to the _Nae’blis_. Or perhaps being resurrected meant he was allowed a second visit? “You see, pet, it seems that you cannot be killed so easily. There have been numerous…attempts. You were meant to die as a child, but survived. You had several close encounters with death afterwards, all narrowly escaped, although you might not have noticed. A horse that might have run you over, a fall that could have twisted your neck. Every time, something happened to counter these events. A glitch in the Pattern, though the more devout might argue that the Creator and the Great Lord themselves were fighting over you. Your _ta’veren_ nature was activated long before the other three, or perhaps you’re something else entirely. Of course, your brother died twice, but that’s different, because-”

Neya’s heart skipped a couple of beats. “ _Mat_ _is dead_?” she croaked in a strangled voice.

Elan waved indifferently. “Oh, he’s very much alive. Despite my direct orders that he ought to be killed,” he added with a grimace. “As I was saying…”

“You ordered the Forsaken to kill my brother?” Neya cut him off indignantly.

Elan huffed with mounting exasperation. He hated being interrupted. Well, she hated to know that her brother was in mortal danger! “Evidently. He could prove a nuisance in the battle to come, despite his…” He frowned, searching for a fitting word, but failed. “Let’s just say that Matrim Cauthon is not the person _I_ would have picked to protect the Light’s champion and see him through to the Last Battle. But that’s beside the point. Unlike you, Cauthon was _supposed_ to die and be revived. You were meant to die, period. That was one part of our Prophecies that fitted nowhere that I could see. _’Should the Child not die, she shall upend the course of fate_.’ I wasn’t even certain it was part of the Prophecies, until I learned of that…incident with your father.” Incident. Neya snorted. That was one word for it. Elan glanced at her. “ _’The Girl Who Lived shall plunge the world in disarray_ ,’” he quoted again. “That’s another extract. It’s always more of the same. It seems you’re meant to be the chaotic element in an otherwise neatly ordered chain of events.”

“But that’s not right,” Neya protested. “Your Prophecies are the opposite of ours, if they proclaim the triumph of the Shadow… The Karaethon Cycle and your Prophecies are mutually exclusive. They can’t both be accurate.”

“The Karaethon Cycle doesn’t claim that the Dragon will triumph,” Elan remarked. He had a point. It was never mentioned anywhere, only assumed. Hoped for, really. “Our Prophecies assert that the Great Lord will be victorious, that he will destroy the world and break the Wheel. Unless _you_ alter the course of fate.” He didn’t seem angry about it. But why hadn’t he simply killed her? Neya asked him just that. “Because it also says you could become our most valuable ally. It all depends on the choices you made in the past, pet, and on the ones that you will make in the days to come, I suspect.” He paused, eyeing her thoughtfully. “You have come to love him, haven’t you?” He meant Bao, she knew. She didn’t respond. “I know you have. What will you do, pet? Try to save him? Kill him before he has a chance to crush the ones you call your allies? You know how destructive Demandred can be. You know his mind is set. Even you cannot change that, I think. Although I wouldn’t put it past you…” he muttered.

“There was no point in trying to kill you,” Elan went on after a pause. “The Pattern either affects you more than anyone else, or it doesn’t affect you at all. Or perhaps you’re truly protected by the Creator himself,” he added with a smirk. “You’re a wild card. Nothing regarding you can be predicted. No one reacts to you the way I expect them to. Lanfear should have blasted you to oblivion. Asmodean should have despised you. He should have died that day in Caemlyn, when Graendal attempted to murder him. But you were there. Graendal could have killed you as well, but she opted for caution, which is unlike her. Taim was never supposed to become your lover. I genuinely believed him incapable of caring about anyone. But you changed him, you gave him hope. Then you disappeared and did the impossible – or so I thought. You found your way into Barid Bel’s heart. Of course that woman had a part to play in this, that…Shendla? I’m not sure what she is, or what she does. Perhaps she’s an emissary from the Creator – she certainly doesn’t belong to the Shadow.”

“Neither do I. Isn’t it obvious that I serve the Light?” Neya asked quietly. “I will never serve the Dark One, Elan. You must know that by now. You took a great risk, allowing me to live.” She regarded him without blinking. “What now, then, _Nae’blis_?

He was silent for a moment, apparently lost in thought. She watched as black specks swirled in his eyes. What in the Pit of Doom were those? "You'll never know how close I came to kill you, that first night, as you lay peacefully asleep in your bed, surrounded by your sisters. Thankfully, I thought better of it. Killing you so early in the game would have been a disaster."

"Well, I'm sure glad you kept me alive for so long," Neya said conversationally, “but the end is nigh, is it not?” Light, but she sounded like Bao, when she talked like that. “You can’t possibly hope that I will have a last-minute epiphany and decide to…what? Turn people to the Shadow just by being near them?” She snorted. It was ridiculous.

Elan stared at her. “You do realise that this is exactly what you have been doing, yes? In reverse, but still. Joar has refused my offer to join our ranks. Barid _married_ you. If you’d used your…powers, abilities, whatever they are, you could have Turned al’Thor and the others to our cause.”

“But I didn’t,” she remarked unnecessarily. Of course she didn’t. Why would she do that? Neya couldn’t help but notice the blatant omission, however. “What about Mazrim?” she asked in a low voice, dreading the answer. The bond hadn’t magically resurfaced. She had no way of knowing if he was alright. If he was-

"Taim is dead," Elan announced flatly.

Neya closed her eyes. Light, he couldn't be! He’d been fine just a few days ago! Blood and flaming ashes! The tears came unbidden; she couldn’t blame her pregnancy for those. She had spent months worrying about him, unable to help him when he was obviously feeling miserable, unable to comfort him. And now…

Neya opened her eyes again. Had Elan killed Mazrim himself, or had him killed? He certainly didn’t seem to have a problem commanding his minions to murder the people she loved. "Why did you seek me out, Elan?" she demanded. "Are you here to kill me, or not?"

"The Last Battle has begun,” he said. “I suppose this was my last chance of seeing you.”

He said it so offhandedly. _Oh, by the way, the prophesised battle that will determine whether we all live or die has begun. Blimey, the weather is awfully stuffy today._ He didn’t address the matter of her potential murder, so she assumed he would take the chance of letting her live, again, despite everything that had happened. "Well, if _Tarmon Gai’don_ is upon us," Neya said, getting back on her feet, "it might be best for me to return to my husband." If this was true, their time together was coming to an end. She had to make the most of it, while she still could. Elan scowled at her from his seat. Clearly, he had expected her to stay a while longer. Well, why would she? He clearly wanted the world to end, and he hadn’t bothered to let her know he was alive for Light knew how long. Why was he being so…sentimental, all of a sudden? Was her nature affecting him, too? It seemed too good to be true.

Elan stood up and moved closer to her. Why did she always end up facing men who towered over her? It did put a terrible strain on her neck. "Very well," he murmured. A gateway opened, but now that he was right there in front of her, Neya couldn't help herself. She threw her arms around him as the tears started to leak from her eyes, for the second time in as many minutes. Elan held her for a long time, not quite as awkward as he used to be, and stroked her hair softly.

"I liked you better before," she whispered eventually, taking a small step back and wiping her tears with her sleeve. “You look so…pretty. Not in a good way.”

"I'm terribly sorry about that. I'll be sure to petition for a body that's more to your taste, next time," he said wryly. "Although I'm not sure what you're complaining about. I've received quite a lot of admiring glances," he went on with a small grin.

"You know me, I'm picky. I couldn’t settle for less than the most beautiful man alive," she said, returning his smile.

"You are entitled to that opinion, I suppose. I must point out that I'm taller than Barid, however."

They both laughed, and Neya realised how much she had missed him. She couldn't let him go without trying once more. "Elan, please. You really don't have to do this. If you join the Light now…"

His face hardened, all trace of mirth vanishing abruptly. "Don't be a fool," he said sharply. "There's no going back for me. There never was." He fixed her with those incredible blue eyes of his. "And if you think you can convince Demandred to follow you over, you will be equally disappointed. He is too far gone. He cares only for Lews Therin. As soon as he reaches the battlefield, you will vanish from his mind altogether. It will be as though you’d never existed." The words hurt more than they should have. Neya knew very well what would happen once Bao left, but that didn't mean she liked hearing it uttered out loud. "Your world is about to end, and there's nothing even _you_ can do to prevent it from happening."

Neya smoothed her face as best she could. "Take me back to my husband," she demanded with all the regal imperiousness she could muster. She was a bloody queen, after all.

"As you wish," Elan retorted scornfully. The gateway sprang back to life beside her and she stepped inside her bedchamber. "Enjoy your final moments, pet," he called after her.

Neya turned back to look at him one last time, but he was already gone.


	70. A shining new era is tiptoeing nearer

Moridin let the gateway close as soon as Neya was through. This reunion had not gone as he’d anticipated. Far from it.

Neya had changed much since he’d last seen her. She was not the frail little girl he’d first encountered over two years ago. She was a woman grown now, a queen and a mother-to-be. She had become the dangerous, powerful individual prophecies and Finn alike had warned him about.

He had no idea why she was still alive. When Demandred had failed to kill her, as commanded, Moridin had been assigned the task. He had intended to send Cyndane after her, or perhaps Hessalam, but the latter was otherwise occupied, and Cyndane was…unreliable, despite the _cour’souvra_. Moghedien was already in place on the battlefield.

_If you want something done, do it yourself._ That had always been his motto, in this life and in the previous ones. Besides, he’d wanted to see Neya one last time, he had to admit. He simply hadn’t counted on how strong she had become.

Demandred was likely too close to her to notice it, but her _ta’veren_ aura was almost like a living thing, a vortex that sapped the minds of those around her and bent them to her will. She truly was nothing like al’Thor. She was much, much worse than the Dragon. Perhaps she would be their doom after all.

Moridin – better known as Ishamael, born Elan Morin – found that he did not care. It was out of his hands.

With a last look out the window of his fortress in the Blight, he channeled the True Power and opened a gateway to Shayol Ghul.

* * *

Bao awakened to the sound of voices and found Neya standing in the middle of the room, glaring at nothing. He got out of bed to join her. "Is something wrong? What happened?"

"Moridin happened." Neya shifted her wrathful gaze to meet his. "Why didn't you tell me who he was?" she demanded, hands on her hips. That was usually a bad sign. Bao kept a safe distance between them, just in case. She had broken his nose once already.

"You did not ask," he answered. Her eyes opened wide in outrage. "And he forbade me to tell you," he added quickly. That was…not exactly a lie. Neya’s glare turned into a scowl. She looked as though she had been crying; her eyes were red and puffy. "Did he hurt you?" Bao enquired sharply. Did the man think he could simply waltz in here and torment his wife? _Nae'blis_ or not, he would pay if he had harmed her!

Neya shook her head impatiently. “I’m fine. I just can’t believe you kept this from me!” she fumed. “What about the Prophecies? Did you know about that, too?”

Bao hesitated. “Moridin may have mentioned it,” he replied cautiously. Neya was barely half his size, but when she was angry, he would rather not be on the receiving end of her temper.

“And you married me anyway?” she asked incredulously. “You can’t possibly think I will help you fight Rand.”

Well, he had hoped that she would see sense before the end, and prove he Great Lord wrong, but he had wisely not counted on it. He would simply proceed as planned and leave her here. This far away from the battlefield, Neya could not influence the battle, or its outcome, in any way. She could not manipulate him, as she was doing now. “You may insist on calling him whatever you wish, but he remains Lews Therin at the core,” Bao snarled. “And I will end him, no matter what you do.”

She threw her hands in the air. “I’m not doing _anything_! Elan is wrong. I’m not _ta’veren_. If I were, you wouldn’t be leaving. Not without me, at any rate.”

Bao frowned. “Leaving?”

Neya sighed deeply; the fire seemed to go out of her like a snuffed candle. Her shoulders slumped. "Elan claims that the Last Battle has begun," she said dejectedly.

"Yes, it has. He warned us earlier in the night, in our dreams," Bao added when she narrowed her eyes at him. "I did not want to wake you to let you know. I would have told you in the morning."

"I figured you'd be gone by now, if you knew," she said with a small frown.

"My time has not yet come. I have some more preparations to see to before I can join the fight."

With another sigh, Neya moved closer to him and buried her head in his chest. She did that often, these days. Bao was not certain whether the pregnancy was making her more emotional than usual or if it was the looming spectre of the battle to come that troubled her. Come to think of it, it was probably both of those things. He put both arms around her. She was shaking slightly. "Are you really going to leave me here?" she whispered after a pause.

He did not exactly have a choice, no matter how much he wished that Neya could witness his moment of glory. It was too chancy. "Someone needs to keep an eye on things here, and you are the queen. Besides," he went on softly, cupping her chin in his hand, "if we should both die, the land would be left at the mercy of the Ayyad, and I doubt Galbrait will be forthcoming, after what I did to her. Shara will fall into chaos again, slavery will be re-established. Everything we have accomplished here will be undone in an instant and all our plans for the future will be discarded."

They had many projects. They had begun conceiving the future Shara soon after they were married. The first undertaking had been prompted by Neya, after she asked why Bao had sent Mintel to recruit people for his army, instead of a younger person. The truth was that the old _abrishi_ had travelled the land back and forth and knew it better than anyone else; he knew every populated area from the mining camps of the Great Rift to the fishing villages of the coast of the Morenal Ocean. Besides, Mintel could travel along the City of Dreams with remarkable ease, something that Bao himself could not do. Indeed, the Ways had been crafted after he was confined inside Shayol Ghul, and he was not familiar with them. Mintel was simply the best suited for the task.

In any case, it had prompted Neya to question how those isolated villagers went by, and she had not liked the answer. The land was so immense, she said, it was a shame that only a tiny part of it was inhabited and, even worse, that these people – her people – lived in such dreadful conditions, for the most part. She wanted to build new cities and places where people could learn, as they did in Bao’s Age. _Think what we could do_ , she had told him dreamily. _Think of the possibilities_. And they had; as soon as the battle was over, they would begin by setting interconnected gateway platforms across the land, so that the fishermen and miners and lumberjacks who lived in all corners of the nation could visit the Capital at any time. It was an ambitious project, and there were more to follow. Just as he had known she would, Neya was quickly adjusting to being a queen. She was going to be a wonderful mother, too, Bao was sure.

"I know,” Neya murmured. “I just hate to let you go away without me. I'll be fretting all the time, not knowing what's going on. Not knowing if you're safe.”

"There is nothing for you to worry about,” Bao assured her, not for the first time. “By the time I join the battle, Lews Therin’s forces will be exhausted, weakened. It will be a matter of days, maybe hours, before I secure our victory. It will be a mere formality. Our losses will be few. Once I have crushed the Dragon’s puny army, we can start planning in earnest. We will have the whole world to ourselves," he told her earnestly, "and all the time we could ever want." Neya's eyes took on a sad look. She still did not believe, but it mattered little. She would, soon enough. "It was promised," he went on in a low voice. "The Dark One will reward us beyond our imagination." He saw her sudden frown. "I know what you think. But you will see." He bent down to kiss her gently, then more roughly. She responded with her usual passion, and soon Bao forgot about it all.

* * *

Neya watched Bao’s muscular chest rise and fall, focusing her attention on his even breathing, his heartbeat. It would be another few days before he had to depart, apparently. She intended to spend as much of that time with him. Preferably in bed.

Idly, Neya wondered if he realised what he'd said, just before they fell into the canopy bed. The Dark One, he had called it. She dared not hope, but she knew what she had to do.

She would drag Bao over to the Light with her bare hands if she had to.

She could tell that he was conflicted. He had been distracted since his mysterious mission a few days ago. Something must have happened to make him doubt the promises of the Shadow. He tried to hide it from her, of course. Now Neya knew why: Bao was genuinely worried that she might succeed in accomplishing the Prophecies, and not in the way he wanted, or expected. Not in the way Shendla had led him to believe.

Neya still couldn’t fathom Elan. Why in the name of the Light had he kept her alive for so long, knowing what he knew? Why had he let her go this time, for that matter, unharmed and unfettered? According to him, she could still change everything.

And she certainly intended to.

Shendla had been right all along. Prophecies were subject to interpretation, as the older woman put it. Bao wasn't meant to kill Rand at all. He was not meant to accomplish his dearest wish, as Shendla had purposefully allowed him to believe. Just as Neya had surmised, Bao had already killed ‘his’ dragon, the _jumara_ , thus becoming the Wyld. He was meant to save the Sharan people – and the world, indeed – by siding with the Light in the Last Battle.

How Neya was supposed to convince him, or the Light to take him back, for that matter, was another problem entirely. Bao had resisted every single attempt at changing his mind. She was beginning to think it would take a lot more than words to make him see reason – not to mention that she would be stuck in Shara after he left. He was taking with him all the male Ayyad, and the few women Bao would leave behind didn’t know how to open gateways.

Neya was running out of time. Now would probably be a good time to seek out help and start making concrete plans. She’d been too sloppy, certain that she could make Bao see reason by talking to him, convinced that her love for him would transform him, somehow. Well, _ta’veren_ or not, it had failed. She could only hope that Kal would come up with something else – something that preferably didn’t involve murdering Bao in his sleep.


	71. Allons-y

They were all assembled outside the Capital, the entire army, soldiers and channelers alike. Bao intended to make a grand entrance on the battlefield, bringing everyone through the gateway at once, using a full circle.

Neya stood apart from the crowd, not far from where Kalayaan was whispering to Torn, with Abrazo shadowing his every move, as usual. Predictably, Kal had been named leader of the male Ayyad. He was the weakest channeler by far, but he was certainly the strongest character and most sensible of them all. When Torn walked away to join his own part of the army – he was to lead the Freed’s foot soldiers – Neya approached Kal and Abe. After all, she might never see them again.

Kal smirked when he saw her approach. "Your Majesty," he said with mock reverence, bowing low.

Neya couldn't help a light chuckle. Sharans really cared nothing for etiquette – not that she minded. "Be careful out there. Look after them," she told him gravely.

"Oh, I will. And you, try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone. Even if it’s just a few hours."

"Of course, you know me. It will be just the right amount of trouble." Neya returned his grin in full, trying to appear more cheerful than she felt.

Kalayaan shook his head ruefully. "You will be a terrible mother."

"Don't say that! As if I wasn't worried enough." The feeling that she would be a worthless mother nagged at her constantly.

Kal waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be silly. You'll be just fine. Besides, you're already a mother, in a way. A fairly decent one, I suppose, although I don't have anyone to measure you up against," he went on with a shrug.

Now she felt like crying. She often did, these days. She turned to Abe. "Make sure Kal doesn't do anything stupid, will you?" The big man bent down to give her a crushing hug.

She returned it with every ounce of strength she could muster, until Kalayaan coughed discreetly. Neya let go to look at him questioningly. "Who else knows about this…plan of yours? Shendla? Taimaka?" he asked her in a low voice.

"It’s hardly a plan.” It scarcely deserved to be called that at all. It was simple: Abe would open a gateway and, unbeknownst to Bao, Neya would seek Rand, or whomever was in charge of the armies of the Light, and then she would…improvise. She would allow her _ta’veren_ magic to guide her and hope for the best. She couldn’t think of anything else to do, at this point, and no one had come forward with a better suggestion “I wish Shendla had provided more help, more advice," Neya went on wistfully, "or, even better, straightforwardly told me what she expected me to do.” Burn the woman. Talking to her was like talking to a wall. She spoke only in riddles. “But she will know what to do when the time comes, I'm sure. Taimaka knows to expect...something and to stand ready, but I haven't dared tell anyone else. I can't afford to _trust_ anyone else, not with this."

"Mintel?"

Neya shook her head. "Not even him. I'm afraid he might talk to Bao, thinking to act for my own good – or Bao's. It's really just the three of us. And Torn, I suppose."

Kal nodded briefly. "We’ll be ready for you." He gave her a shallow bow. He seemed to mean it, this time. "I'll see you on the other side, _ina_." With that, he turned to prepare his men for departure, Abe trailing after him.

Neya watched them walk away, feeling sombre and uncharacteristically pessimistic. Light, let them be safe. She put a hand on her belly. She’d already lost Mazrim, she couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.

Light, Mazrim. She still couldn’t believe he was dead. She’d been so certain that she would _know_ , if anything happened to him, bond or no bond. She hadn’t asked Bao for details. What was the point? If he was dead, there was nothing she could do about it. She just hoped that her husband wasn’t in any way responsible for Mazrim’s demise. She didn’t think she could ever forgive him for that – which was precisely why she hadn’t enquired. She had to remain focused on the task at hand. There was too much at stake.

Bao and his army of channelers had practiced linking in a full circle for the past few days. It was an impressive display, Neya had to admit. With Sakarnen at his disposal, Bao would be practically invincible. She didn’t dare imagine the damage he may wreak on the forces of the Light before she had a chance to do anything. She could only hope that Lews Therin – burn her, Rand! His name is _Rand_ – wouldn’t rise up to the challenge of a duel, which was certainly Bao’s intention. As long as the Dragon Reborn remained out of his reach, Neya was convinced that Bao would take his time, that he wouldn’t do anything rash. He would toy with the Light's commander until his challenge was met. Killing Rand was his objective; everything else was trifling. Until he had Rand’s corpse at his feet, the battle would rage on.

Neya would have to act quickly once she was on the other side, but she couldn’t leave right away. They had to let Bao demonstrate his might, so that his enemies understood that he would prove much more valuable alive than dead, that he could become a serious asset. Kal would determine when the time to open a gateway for Neya was best. She trusted his judgement.

Bao’s power, combined with all the forces of the Light, whatever they may be, would easily put an end to the battle. They would crush the Trollocs and Myrddraal, lay waste to the Black Ajah. Surely the Shadow couldn’t have gained many more allies than that. The Seanchan, revolting as their customs may be, must have rallied Rand’s side, and most of the Forsaken had been disposed of, it seemed.

The Wyld would even have his moment of glory, as saviour not only of the Sharans, but of the entire world. Rand, if he had any brains left, if he hadn’t gone utterly mad, would have no choice but to acknowledge this publicly - provided that the Dragon Reborn survived. Neya could only hope that it would satisfy Bao.

She was so lost in contemplation that she didn’t hear Mintel approach. She welcomed him with a warm smile when she noticed him. "I know what you're going to say," she told the old man. "It's only sensible for me to stay behind, I'm the Queen, and the battlefield is no place for a pregnant woman," she said bitterly.

The _abrishi_ surprised her with a hearty chuckle. "Why, I would never. The reason we are not taking you with us is that, were you on that battlefield, you would destroy the enemy before any of us had a chance to act." He beamed at her, and she returned his grin.

"I'm just so worried,” Neya admitted. “They're all so young. Galbrait has to be the oldest person around, excluding you."

"Galbrait is much older than me, _mala_. She's over five hundred years old, I think, and she has led the Ayyad for at least a century." Neya stared at him in disbelief. _Five hundred years old_? Mintel had previously hinted at Galbrait’s old age, but… “That's impossible. Bao said that only the channelers of the Fabled Age lived that long." That was what the Sharans called the Age of Legends.

"Then Bao is wrong. Or perhaps only your…Aes Sedai have shorter life spans, for some reason."

Light! How had she not known that before? Egwene had informed her that Aes Sedai lived longer than non-channelers, but not _that_ long. Taimaka had never mentioned her own age. Was Bao aware of this? Neya would have to investigate when…well, she would investigate if she survived the Last Battle. She couldn’t imagine living hundreds of years. The very idea made her feel queasy. Being immortal had definitely not suited Elan. For that matter, most of the Forsaken were…perturbed, at best, if not downright insane.

She shivered. Mintel gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Do not worry, _mala_. The Wyld will keep everyone safe." He sounded so earnest. Did he know what she had in mind? Neya knew how much faith he had in Bao. Mintel would gladly give his life for Bao's, if it ever came to that. She hoped it wouldn't.

The Wyld himself was walking toward them. He had already donned his armour. It had to be the most bizarre suit of armour Neya had ever seen – not that she had seen many sorts of armours, admittedly. It seemed to be made entirely of shiny coins, so bright and polished that they reflected the fading light of the evening. It looked absolutely ridiculous.

Of course, Bao looked quite fetching in it – he looked good in everything, or nothing – but it seemed utterly unpractical and unnecessarily showy. It was very much unlike Bao to don such a thing, but Shendla had been adamant. It was the armour of the Wyld, kept in pristine condition for millennia in the Citadel. It was amazing that it had survived for so long. Then again, no Sharan would dare touch it for unholy purposes. The Prophecies were possibly the only thing that united everyone, rich or poor, high or low. The armour fitted Bao perfectly; no alteration had been necessary. It truly had been made for him.

"We are almost ready," Bao announced quietly. "Mintel, would you mind keeping an eye on the recruits you brought in? Some of them are quite unruly."

The old man chuckled. "Of course they are, my boy. Most of them are barely older than Cailin, and uncouth villagers besides." Cailin was the youngest female Ayyad, a girl of sixteen, but she was uncommonly strong with weaves of Fire and Earth, which was why Bao insisted on her coming along despite her young age – after assuring both Neya and Galbrait that she would be kept as far back from the first lines as possible. Galbrait was not a particularly likeable woman, but she was sensible and looked out for the women placed in her care.

After Mintel bade her goodbye, promising to keep his good eye on everyone, Bao turned to Neya. "We must leave now." He had a peculiar look on his face, but she couldn't determine what it was. "Try not to start a war while we are gone," he went on with a deadpan expression.

Neya arched an eyebrow. "That sounded suspiciously like an attempt at making a jest."

"I may be a bit rusty."

She grinned at him delightedly. He did have a sense of humour, somewhere deep inside. "That's alright. We can work on that when you get back. It's a skill like any other: you need to hone it and practice it more often."

That earned her a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. _I will make him smile one day_ , Neya vowed again, as she had at their wedding.

She wasn't entirely certain he could bend down with his armour, so she lifted herself up on small platform of Air to kiss him. Not for the last time, hopefully.

When he was gone, when everyone had left through the monstrous gateway, with blood-curling screams resounding from the battlefield, Neya rode her horse back to the palace in all haste. She had much to do. She wasn't worried about anyone questioning her motives, however. That was one of the perks of being a queen: people rarely stopped to question your orders, no matter how whimsical they appeared.


	72. Be realistic, demand the impossible

Egwene was studying the map attentively, although if she was honest with herself, she didn't understand everything Mat was saying. He seemed perfectly confident, if somewhat nervous, sometimes muttering under his breath in the Old Tongue, sometimes cursing so everyone could understand him quite clearly. In the distance, Demandred's _saidin_ -amplified voice was booming, demanding that Lews Therin face him in person. Had the Forsaken not yet realised that Rand wasn’t on the battlefield? Well, it was all to their advantage, Egwene supposed. Demandred didn’t seem inclined to pulverise them until ‘Lews Therin’ responded to his challenge.

In the command tent, Elayne was resting on a stool with her Warder, Birgitte, at her side. Logain Ablar had returned with them, with his few remaining followers from the Black Tower. Min and Siuan were talking in low voices, probably discussing what had happened earlier. Lan was there as well, staring in the distance, presumably toward Shayol Ghul, where Nynaeve was. Gawyn stood nearby, of course. He never left Egwene’s side for longer than he had to. He was engaged in conversation with his brother, Galad. Leilwin stood rigidly a few feet away, still as a statue. Natael was idly plucking at the strings of his harp; the man seemed to carry the thing around like some people carry their sword, and he rarely stopped playing music. Egwene still hadn't figured out exactly what the man was doing here, why Rand had insisted that he remain close by. She had other, more important matters to worry about, however. The Great Captains had all been deposed, in light of the recent realisation that they had been Compelled. While Graendal made the perfect culprit, the Forsaken was supposed to be dead, according to Rand. Still, it was possible that the Compulsion had been placed upon them before her demise.

It looked bad. Bloody catastrophic, in fact, as Mat put it. He wasn't sure how much he could salvage, following the chaos that the confused minds of the Great Captains had wreaked. But he would try; that was one thing for which he could be counted on.

Logain cried out suddenly, shouting 'gateway!' and Egwene whirled around, filled with _saidar_ , linking with Siuan and Elayne and taking command of the circle, ready to attack.

Everyone in the command tent stared as Neya strolled out of the opening, which winked out of existence as soon as she was through. It didn’t make sense. If Logain had sensed the gateway opening, it must have been created with _saidin._ Admittedly, that was hardly the only thing that didn’t make sense at present.

There was silence, everyone temporarily stunned speechless by Neya's impromptu reappearance, after months of absence.

Mat was the first to recover. "Blood and ashes! You have _got_ to stop doing that! I thought you were dead. Again! Flaming ashes," he muttered once more, for good measure. He walked up to his sister and hugged her awkwardly for a brief moment. "Are you alright? After what happened with Taim…" he said uncertainly.

Egwene finally found her voice. "Mat. You should step back."

He turned to her, frowning. "What? Egwene, it's Neya!" She refrained from rolling her eyes. As if she couldn't see that.

"She's wearing Sharan clothing," Egwene explained. "The women who attacked our camp wore the same blouses." She knew she was right about the clothes, but she couldn't make sense of this. How on earth had Neya ended up in _Shara_ , of all places?

Before Mat could reply, Neya spoke. "She's right, Mat. I was in Shara for the past few months." Her voice sounded…different, somehow. She seemed more poised, more mature. Her posture was upright; she radiated confidence. This was not the Neya Egwene remembered. "Bao brought me there. I assume you've puzzled out who he is by now?" she asked, looking at Egwene, who nodded curtly.

"She's under Compulsion," Logain said before Neya had a chance to continue. He was studying her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed. "Or she's been brainwashed. She's different from before," he went on with a frown.

"Oi!" Mat protested. "Watch your tongue, man. That's my sister you're talking about." Logain looked at him in surprise, as did some of the others in the tent.

"Logain, it's not like that," Neya said softly. "Please, you need to hear me out." Once again, she looked at Egwene as she spoke. "Eggs, you were-"

"Show some respect, girl," Gawyn hissed, reaching for his sword, "when you address the Amyrlin Seat." Egwene put a hand on his arm in a placating gesture.

Neya looked unfazed. "Egwene," she said again, "you of all people should understand. You were with the Seanchan for weeks. Does that make you one of them? Did they manage to brainwash you? Why couldn't I have remained true to myself in captivity, just like you did?"

Egwene regarded her old friend thoughtfully, considering. Siuan took the brief silence as an opportunity to whisper in her ear. "Mother, the girl is _ta'veren_. She glows as brightly as Cauthon does. Do you really know her?" Egwene nodded. It made sense; at the very least, it would explain why Neya always popped up in the most unexpected places, at the most unexpected times.

Min approached on her other side. "I would love to tell you what I see, but she's a channeler and _ta'veren_ besides," her friend muttered darkly. "There are so many random images swirling around her, it makes me dizzy. One thing is clear though: she is no Darkfriend." Egwene turned to her, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "There's this…aura enveloping her. It's not unlike your own." Now Egwene was frowning, too. Her own? She had an aura? "Did I never mention it?" Min shrugged. "Well, you said you didn't want to know what I saw around you. Anyway, it's a bit like what I see around Logain, except for the colour. It's pure white. It's the colour I associate with people who serve the Light, as opposed to the pitch black I see around the Forsaken. I saw it around Semirhage, anyway," she amended. "Of course, it doesn't mean she's not under Compulsion. She might even have been brainwashed, but if that's the case, she's still convinced that she walks in the Light."

"Neya," Egwene asked, raising her voice for all to hear, "if Demandred had you all this time, why did he suddenly left you unsupervised, long enough to allow you to escape? And if you can Travel, why didn't you come back earlier?"

"I can't make a gateway, if that's what you're asking. I had one of the male Ayyad open one for me. Bao left me behind without guards because he trusts me," she went on casually, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation. The fact that she would believe such a thing seemed to tip the scale heavily in favour of brainwashing or Compulsion, but Neya had a point. The Seanchan hadn't succeeded in breaking Egwene's will, and Neya had always been stubborn, even by Two Rivers' standards. She had to be given the benefit of the doubt – for now, at least.

"Why did Demandred even take you in the first place? What happened?" Logain demanded. "I never got the truth out of Taim, even after..." He trailed off abruptly. His days spent in the Black Tower’s dungeons were still a sore subject.

Neya shook her head. "I would never have left on my own initiative, Logain. I wouldn’t have abandoned you like that. Bao – Demandred – just showed up that night and took me to Shara. He claimed I was to be used as leverage. But I had no idea that Mazrim was a Darkfriend before that, I assure you. How did he die?" she asked Logain. Her face betrayed no emotion, but her voice was tight.

The tall man sniggered. "Die? He's not dead, lass. He's one of _them_. M'Hael, they call him now." Neya's face drained of colour. Her previous impassiveness melted off. She looked genuinely upset.

"You didn't know?" Egwene enquired shrewdly.

"No," Neya whispered. "That bloody son of a flaming goat!" she cursed fiercely. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

"That's a euphemism if I ever heard one," Logain stated bitterly.

"Not Mazrim," Neya said. "I was told he was dead. Trolloc balls!" she exclaimed, exhaling sharply. "I wonder… If they made him a Forsaken… Could that explain what happened to our bond?" she murmured to herself.

Everyone stared at her in stunned silence once again. This time, Egwene was the first to recover. "Bond? You _bonded_ Taim?" She couldn't keep the incredulity from her voice.

"He bonded me,” Neya corrected. “I was too far away to feel much from him, and I believe he voluntarily masked it, but about a week ago it just…vanished. I can't really explain it. I just woke up to realise I couldn't feel him at all anymore. I assumed he had severed the connection himself, on purpose, but then I was told he died." She grimaced. "I have only a vague idea of what's happened here. Bao didn't tell me much, except that Semirhage and Osan'gar had died."

"Osan'gar?" Egwene repeated. She'd never heard that name before.

"Bao said he was Aginor reborn. Or reincarnated, same difference. You are aware that the Dark One is putting deceased Forsaken in new bodies, aren't you?" Neya asked around uncertainly. "At least those who weren't killed with Balefire," she amended. "I think Aran'gar might be dead as well, something to do with Graendal betraying her. I mean him. She – he – was the new version of Balthamel." She glanced at their bewildered expressions, before finally settling her eyes on Egwene. "You do know all that, don't you?"

"How are we supposed to know?" Galad demanded, stepping forward. "None of us are Darkfriends. We don't have access to the same knowledge as you obviously do."

Neya opened her mouth to retort, but Egwene was faster. "There's no need for that, Galad. She's not a Darkfriend. Why would she tell us that, if she was?" she went on when her husband’s half-brother looked ready to protest. "I realise that this might be a trap, that Demandred might have sent her, but I do not believe she's turned to the Shadow. I won't believe it, not until I have evidence of the contrary." Egwene fixed her gaze back on her old friend. "We need you to tell us everything you know."

"Of course," Neya put in quickly. "But Eggs, that's not why I'm here. Not just that, anyway." She sighed heavily. "Look, I know how it looks. I disappeared for months, and before that I was with Mazrim. Considering how things turned out with him, it makes perfect sense for you not to trust me. I expected that. But will you at least hear me out? Please? I will tell you what I know, but this is beyond important."

As if on cue, there was another commotion. Mat and Logain both cursed, and Lan had his sword out before anyone else had time to react. Gawyn and Leilwin both jumped in front of Egwene, shielding her with their bodies and almost hiding her view of the man who had just materialised inside the tent. Apparently, no one had sensed a gateway opening. In fact, there was no trace of one.

Egwene linked with Siuan, Elayne and even Logain this time, but she couldn't shield the newcomer. She tried to send a weave of Fire, then bonds made of Air, but nothing seemed to touch him. The weaves...melted as they came close to him. She glanced at Logain, who shook his head in disbelief. It wasn't _saidin_.

The traitor Mazrim Taim surveyed them all with a bored expression. "I'm not here to destroy you," he said dismissively before turning his attention to Neya.

"Mazrim. It's true. You're alive," Neya whispered. She looked shell-shocked, even though she’d heard the news beforehand. Clearly, she hadn’t believed it. She took a few steps towards the Saldaean, but Taim gestured for her to keep her distance. The look on Neya’s face was almost painful to witness.

"I’m so glad you remember who I am," the newly-raised Forsaken declared dryly.

"Mazrim–"

"If you were wondering what happened to the bond, allow me to enlighten you. I've been masking it for months, practically since you were taken. I figured you wouldn't appreciate sensing my feelings as I was forced to do unspeakable things, not to mention my recent visit to Shayol Ghul." He took a step toward Neya, then thought better of it, stopping in his tracks and placing his arms behind his back, as if to refrain from reaching out to her. He may present an expressionless façade, but the intense yearning in his dark eyes told a different story. His voice betrayed none of this, however. It was cold, with a wry undertone. "I didn't particularly enjoy it myself. Very gloomy place, and I could have hoped for a better sponsor than Demandred, as you can imagine.” Neya paled visibly. “I don't know what happened to the bond afterward. It went…numb. I could tell that you were alive, but that was it. No emotions, no sense of where you were." He smirked. “Until a minute ago, when I felt a vague tingling sensation, warning me that you were nearby.”

Before Neya could reply, Logain spoke. His voice dripped with hate and scorn. "Do you really think you can take us all at once, traitor? There are several of us, and only one of you." Egwene rolled her eyes in frustration. At least he didn't say how many channelers there really were inside the tent.

"I believe I could. You'd be surprised at what one can do with the True Power, Logain. I don't care to find out, however," Taim answered with a shrug. He never took his eyes off Neya.

"Why have you come here, Taim?" Egwene asked him sharply. Why in the Light would the man appear right inside the tent on his own? What twisted scheme was this?

Taim didn't answer her. He was still intent on Neya. "Have you discovered a way to Heal the madness?" His voice was now so soft that Egwene had to strain her ears to make out the question. Neya nodded slowly. _She has?_ Egwene thought with wonder. _Independently of Nynaeve?_

Taim turned to Egwene. "Then I'm here to make a deal, Mother," he announced with mock cheerfulness.

"Do you seriously think we'll make a deal with _you_? Are you bloody insane?" Logain asked incredulously.

Taim favoured him with a crooked smile. "I am, as a matter of fact. Hence my previous question."

Before Logain could rant on, Egwene stepped forward, Gawyn and Leilwin on her heels. "What deal? What do you have to offer us in exchange for your sanity?" she demanded. "Will you and your men return to the Light and fight the Dark One’s puppets?" They were badly outnumbered, now that Demandred had unexpectedly appeared with an entire army. With the rogue Black Tower men on their side, they might still be able to turn the battle around. With Mat's knack for devising strategies, with his improbable luck, they might.

Taim let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "If you were not so clearly losing, some of my men might be persuaded to do just that, but as it is, I'm afraid my defection is more likely to cause them to rally Demandred's camp than yours. As for the others… Well, I’m sure Logain's told you what happened to them. It's no use trying to bring them over."

Neya was frowning at him. "Why? What happened to them?"

Taim's wry smile vanished instantly, but it was Logain who answered. "He's Turned dozens of them to the Shadow, against their will. It can be done, if you happen to have thirteen Myrddraal and thirteen Dreadlords at you beck and call," he said angrily. He had been made to endure the process quite a few times, from what Egwene had gathered. She was curious to learn how he had withstood the Turning – many of his fellow Asha’man hadn’t been so lucky.

Neya didn't say anything, but the look she gave Taim caused him to swallow. He dropped his gaze. "Anyway," he went on, speaking to the ground, "none of them were ever following me out of loyalty. They want power and a place in the Dark One's new world." Egwene noticed that he used the term ‘Dark One’, as any of them would. Though it might mean nothing – perhaps he was using it out of habit. He had been concealing his true affiliation for months, at the very least.

"That's the deal, then? We gain… _you_ , and you get to recover your sanity?" Logain scoffed.

"You know very well what I have to give you," Taim countered in a clipped tone. "Are you really going to make me believe you have no interest in retrieving the seals?"

"Not at all," Egwene replied calmly. They _had_ to get the seals, somehow, but could they really trust Taim to hand them over, even if they managed to come to an agreement? "Do you have them with you?"

"I brought one, as a show of good faith. The others are hidden in a secure location." The Saldaean took out a small disc out of his coat pocket and flippantly _tossed_ it to Egwene. Thankfully, Min had quick reflexes. She caught it deftly before it could crash to the ground. Burn the man! No one would be foolish enough to handle the fragile seals with such carelessness. Unless Taim had truly lost his mind. Min carefully handed the disc to Egwene, who manipulated it with extreme precaution. It appeared to be authentic, but…

"How do we know it's not a counterfeit?" Logain asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.

"Break it and find out," Taim offered with a sneer. Logain growled, placing a hand on his sword, and took a few determined steps toward the other man, but Lan grabbed his arm.

"You are willing to give us the seals, provided that Neya Heals the madness in you," Egwene recapped. Could it be as easy as that? Was Mat’s legendary luck finally kicking in?

Taim snorted. "Don’t be foolish. Do you have any idea what Demandred would do to me if he knew I was even talking to you? He taught me a few tricks, you know. For instance, did you know that there is a weave that can sear the flesh off your body and keep you alive during most of the process?" he asked no one in particular. "I need a promise that I will be safe from him – and the others, but mostly him – until the fighting abates." Logain seemed ready to protest but Egwene shushed him to allow the upstart Forsaken to pursue. "I also want your word that I will not be prosecuted, should al'Thor somehow be victorious. I will agree to be exiled to the far end of the world, never to return again, but I will not be severed or harmed in any way."

Light, the man _was_ insane. Egwene could not agree to these terms, not after everything he'd done, not even if he'd accomplished some of it under duress or because of the taint – something that could never be proven. In any case, becoming a Forsaken and pledging his soul to the Dark One had been his own choice, ultimately. "We must take this under consideration," she told him guardedly.

Taim gave her a mocking bow. "You have one hour. The offer expires after that." With a last glance toward Neya, he vanished. He didn't open a gateway; one second he was standing there, and the next he was gone. The air seemed to warp around him for an instant. They all stared at the spot he had just vacated for a long time.


	73. A wild choir of disharmony

"This is madness!" Logain exclaimed. "Surely you're not considering it. Mother," he added in a slightly subdued tone when Gawyn scowled at him.

Egwene sighed. "We need the seals, Logain," she told him wearily.

"There are other ways of obtaining them," the Ghealdanin replied. "If we capture Taim…"

"And how do you propose we do that?" Siuan asked pointedly. "You saw what happened when we tried to attack him, Logain. He's channeling the True Power. No one here has any experience fighting against _that_."

"Siuan has a point. Taim would not have appeared all alone, right inside the command tent, if he wasn't certain he could get out alive," Lan pointed out quietly. "For all we know, he has an _angreal_ , or even a _sa'angreal_. There exist several sorts of protective _ter’angreal_ , as well."

"What are you saying? That we should agree to everything he demands?" Logain scoffed. "We can't allow him to escape justice. Do you have any idea what it's like, to be Turned to the Shadow?" he growled. "He deserves death, Mandragoran, and I'll be damned if he doesn't get it. I will see to it personally."

Min intervened, her voice soothing. "Logain, Egwene is right. We need the seals. I know the cost is high, but–"

Logain was shaking his head stubbornly. "No. We can get the seals ourselves. Mother, I have put several of my men on the task already. I assure you, there is no need for this… deal."

"I have no reason to doubt your men, Logain, but what will happen if they can't get the seals in time?" Egwene remarked. "Besides, Taim is even less likely to leave them unguarded now that he's made contact with us and let us know he does indeed have them."

Neya approached them hesitantly. "Can I say something?" They all turned to her. She had lost some of her earlier aplomb; she looked…drained, as though seeing Taim had depleted her of all her energy. Did she truly care about the Saldaean, even now that she knew what he’d become? What he’d done? Well, love was blind, as the saying went. Egwene nodded curtly to indicate that Neya should speak her mind. "I think we should allow Mazrim to return to the Light." She raised her arms to forestall the cries of protest. "I know, I know, I don't have a say in the matter, and I'm biased in any case. But hear me out. As I was saying earlier, I have a plan. Sort of," she amended quickly. "I think I can convince Bao – Demandred – to join forces with you. With us." That earned her a collective stare of disbelief, as she must have expected. "And if we can get them both to-"

Everyone began to talk at once, until Egwene raised a hand and called for silence, her voice amplified with _saidar_. She gestured for Neya to go on, more out of sheer curiosity than real hope. From what Egwene had seen of and heard from Demandred until now, they might as well ask the Dark One to surrender. "He changed while he was in Shara,” Neya continued. “He met this woman, Shendla, whom he trusts with his entire being, and I think she's managed to persuade him that his destiny was to save the Sharan people from destruction, and bring them victory in the Last Battle. Sending me here was her idea. She’s one of us; a servant of the Light. She believes that Demandred can return to the Light, with the proper incentives. When he finds out that Rand’s not here…” She looked around uncertainly. “He’s not, is he?"

Egwene hesitated. She assumed that this particular bit of information was all that kept Demandred from crushing them. He seemed persuaded that Rand was hiding on purpose, and he clearly hoped to lure the Dragon out by attacking small portions of their army, one at a time, methodically, patiently. Eventually, Egwene decided to trust Neya’s instinct. Her friend had always been a fair judge of character – at least she used to be, before she fell in love with the traitor Mazrim Taim. But if that Shendla woman was on their side and really had Demandred’s trust… “Rand’s at Shayol Ghul,” she stated. Elayne frowned at her, as though Egwene had just betrayed a secret shared between them alone.

Neya nodded. She’d apparently guessed that already. “There are very few Darkfriends in Shara,” she went on. “I've only met one, to tell you the truth. The others follow Bao because they _want_ to follow him." She looked at everyone in turn, trying to impress her words on them. "They have their own prophecies, you see, and Bao – Demandred – has fulfilled them all. And the oddest thing is that he did half of these things unwittingly. I think that, maybe, it really was meant to be. Just like Rand's fate is to face the Dark One and…save the world,” – The hesitation before the word ‘save’ was perceptible. Had she intended to say ‘break’ instead? – “Bao is meant to save the Sharans, somehow."

"Girl, that's all very well," Siuan said crisply, "but how does that help us? What makes you or that Shendla person think the man can be turned? All he's done since he barged in on the battlefield was sow chaos throughout our ranks and demand that al'Thor fight him man to man."

Right on cue, Demandred's voice boomed in the distance, urging Lews Therin to come and face him. Neya closed her eyes until the Forsaken fell silent once more. "It's hard to put into words how much he loathes Lews Therin," she told them softly. "I can't rightly explain it. Sometimes I think he can't, either. But he's sensible, rational. Most of the time." She glanced at Egwene. "I know how it's going to sound, but he's not a bad person." There was a chorus of disbelieving snorts and mutters that, once again, Egwene had to dispel. "He cares about the Sharans. He really does, Eggs. He's their king, you know. I truly believe he will do whatever it takes to see that they come out of this unscathed." She sighed. "Look, all I need is to talk to him. Give me a few minutes with him, right here, through a secure gateway, and we'll know immediately if it can be done or not. If he refuses, at worst he will lay waste to part of your army." _Your_ army? It wasn't a good sign that Neya didn't seem to consider it to be _her_ army, as well. "That would be terrible, but think of all the lives we can spare if he agrees," Neya went on almost pleadingly.

Egwene was concerned about the other woman's sanity. Did she truly believe it could be achieved? Again, that seemed to lean heavily in favour of the brainwashing or Compulsion theory. Could they afford to waste time and ask Damer Flinn to Delve her mind for traces of tampering? But why would Demandred Compel her to come here with this mad scheme? What could possibly be his angle? To lay a trap somehow, using Neya as bait? It seemed a waste of resources, and he had to know they wouldn't welcome her back with open arms. Or was it part of another Forsaken’s plan? The Shadow’s generals were rivals before they were allies, after all. And with Neya’s news that several Forsaken may have been returned to life… Who knew how many of them the Light was still facing? _Was_ Graendal out there, somewhere?

On the other hand, if Neya was right – unlikely as it was – if there was even the slightest chance that Demandred might join their side… Was it a risk worth taking? She turned to Mat. After all, he was now in charge of the battle, and he was a gambler besides - just like Demandred, if the rumours were true. Who better to calculate the odds? "Mat, what do you think?"

He seemed surprised to be asked for his opinion. "Ah… Well, with Demandred and his army on our side, there would be no question as to the issue of the battle, that's for sure. But if he decides to destroy ‘part of our army’, as Neya put it… That would be a bloody disaster." That was nothing Egwene hadn't considered already. Mat appeared to be taking the pros and cons into account, muttering under his breath. Most of it was in the Old Tongue. Finally, he turned to his sister. "What did you mean by 'secure gateway'?"

"It's actually called a window. It's…like a gateway, but without the possibility to cross from either side. Nothing can get through, not even the True Power."

Mat considered that for another minute. "I guess it's worth the risk, if you're _certain_ that there's a chance for it to work. Are you?" he asked her doubtfully. Neya had always been the only person he ever listened to. Most of the time, that impressive ability had proven useless, however. Neya was almost as bad as Mat when it came to causing trouble and she was more likely to participate in his pranks than to put an end to them.

Neya nodded firmly. "Absolutely certain. But we should talk about the terms you intend to propose, because you can be certain he won't be easily convinced. No matter what Aes Sedai tricks you use, you won't be able to deceive him, I can assure you."

Aes Sedai tricks? Neya had spent too much time at the Black Tower. "You mentioned incentives. I assume he will want what Taim asked for: no prosecution, not to be gentled or harmed," Egwene surmised. Light, was she seriously considering this?

"Probably. But as Mazrim suggested, you could exile him too, and what better place than Shara? He's already their king anyway, and it's quite remote. But more importantly, you could demand that he–"

"I don't understand why we are even discussing this," Logain cut in abruptly. "Letting _Demandred_ go free? Allowing him to be leader of a gigantic foreign nation? That's just asking for trouble in the future, provided that he doesn't make trouble right now. And provided there _is_ a future." He gazed at Neya. "I don't know what Demandred did to you, lass, and I'm sorry I wasn’t able to protect you, but you need to stay out of this. We're running out of time, and we have plans to make. Concrete, realistic plans."

"Logain," Egwene said, "please let her finish." She turned to Neya. They might as well hear the whole…plan. If it could be called that. "What were you about to say? What else could we demand of him?" Obviously, he would have to bring his army over, and surrender whatever _angreal_ or _sa'angreal_ he had in his possession. But to be fair, Logain had a point: exiling Demandred to Shara would only cause trouble in the future, even if they forced him to abdicate and placed someone of their own choosing on the throne.

"You could sever his connection to the Dark One," Neya replied softly.

Egwene scowled at her. "Is that even possible?" Neya glanced away for a moment, although Egwene couldn't see what – or whom – she was looking at. "Neya? Do you know something that we don't?"

She looked embarrassed. "I had assumed… Didn't Rand mention… I mean…" She trailed off, clearly at a loss for words.

Egwene was about to prompt her when a dramatic sigh was heard from the other side of the tent. As Egwene turned to look, Natael was making his way toward them. "You're unbelievable," he scolded Neya. "First you reject me, then you commit yourself to Taim – you allowed him to _bond_ you! – and now _this_." He shook his head emphatically.

"I'm sorry, Joar. I really thought Rand would have told them by now, with the Last Battle approaching," Neya said sheepishly.

Egwene had heard that name before – well, she’d read it, more accurately. She stared at the obnoxious gleeman with renewed wariness. No, Rand wouldn’t have… He _couldn’t_ have… She caught sight of Min, whose face had gone an alarming shade of pink. She was doing her best to evade Egwene’s shrewd gaze.

“Is it Joar now?” the bard asked with a pout. “What happened to the silly pet names?”

“Joar Addam Nessosin.” Galad’s breath hitched as he said the name. “The Musician. You’re Asmodean!”

That prompted a fresh wave of indignation among the others. Swords were unsheathed, and Logain attempted to take control of the circle. He glared at Egwene when she refused to relinquish it. Natael chuckled darkly, spreading his hands wide. "Don't be daft. I've been around for months. I could have betrayed you or killed the whole lot of you a thousand times, al'Thor included. Yet I'm still here, and you're all very much alive." He smirked nastily. "Not that I never considered it, mind. But I expect the Great Lord's punishment for my failures and forced desertion will be much worse than anything you could ever do to me."

Siuan had apparently caught Min’s mortified expression, because she rounded on the younger woman, who attempted to hide behind Leilwin. “You knew!” she said accusingly.

Min raised her hands defensively. “Rand made me promise not to say anything,” she protested.

“But _why_? Surely, at a time like this…”

Min shook her head vehemently. “Only as a last resort. Only if the fate of the world depended on it, he said. I _promised_ , Siuan.”

“Girl, this is senseless. Nothing can justify holding back that sort of information. What if he’d–”

“Rand had faith in him,” Min murmured. “He thought Natael had genuinely redeemed himself, and that he had earned his newfound anonymity. That he deserved to start afresh, when the battle was over.”

The gleeman glanced at her, obviously caught off guard, his brash arrogance slipping for a second. He quickly smoothed his features when he realised Egwene was watching him.

“Be that as it may,” Egwene cut in. “It appears that his assistance will be required after all.”

“I don’t understand,” Elayne announced, her delicate brow furrowed. “If Rand somehow managed to sever Master Nat–” She huffed, glaring at Min, clearly annoyed that neither her lover nor her friend had deemed appropriate to inform _her_ of the bard’s true identity. “If he severed _Asmodean’s_ connection to the Dark One, why didn’t he do the same to Semirhage?”

Both Min and Natael stared at her, then glanced at each other. Obviously, the thought had never occurred to them and they were now at a loss for an answer. “I suppose,” Natael ventured, “that the Lord Dragon never considered it. He needed _me_ , but he had no use for Semirhage. His only intention was to remove her from the game, and to learn as much as possible of her plans, and the others Chosen’s activities. But a tamed Semirhage…” He scoffed. “Well, there could be no such thing. Nemene would have died before she joined the Light.”

“And she did die,” Min whispered as she unconsciously massaged her throat. “But that’s not the point. What she’s saying about Demandred…” She gestured toward Neya. “Judging from his demands, he’d sooner die than fight alongside Lews – I mean Rand.”

Natael eyed Egwene, his brown eyes glinting mischievously. "Mother, with all due respect, I think Miss Farshaw has the right of it. Demandred will never yield. He will never deviate from his objective, and that is to kill Lews Therin, as you may have surmised," he went on wryly.

"I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Master Natael," Egwene replied coolly. She couldn’t bring herself to call him Asmodean. He might take it as a mark of respect. "What I want to know is what Neya means by ‘severing the Dark One's connection.’"

"She means exactly that, Mother,” Natael replied in a smarmy voice. “Apparently, there is a…projection of said connection to be found in the Chosen – or the Forsaken, if you prefer. Al'Thor claimed that it looked like a…wire, of sorts. I'm afraid I didn't see it myself, although I certainly felt it when he cut it," he said with a grimace.

"But what did it _do_ , concretely?" Siuan wanted to know. Her blue eyes were calculating, full of suspicion. Was she wondering if ‘Natael’ had had something to do with the tampering of the Great Captains’ minds - of Gareth's mind? Because Egwene certainly was, no matter what Min said, no matter how much Rand may have trusted the man. Had Min seen something that convinced her that he was truly repentant?

"It made me susceptible to the taint. I suppose it rendered me…mortal, as well, though I can't easily verify that part. Evidently, I lost my status as one of the…Forsaken,” he told them sulkily. "Which also signifies that I can no longer channel the True Power."

Logain was scowling at him. "I can't even feel your ability to channel _saidin_ ," he remarked.

Natael – Asmodean – rolled his eyes. "Of course you can't, you lubberwort. Al'Thor made me mask it from the beginning, from the moment he captured me. He couldn't afford to let anyone know I was…well, me." He grinned, showing teeth.

Light, but he wasn’t making it easy to trust him. To think the man had been with them all along, hearing every conversation, every plan! It made her skin crawl. "It makes sense," Egwene said eventually. They all turned to look at her in puzzlement. "Rand needed someone to teach him how to wield _saidin_ , and who else was there? I can't agree with what he did, and the Light only knows why he never mentioned it, especially now, but I can understand."

Neya cleared her throat. "Anyway. Surely you can see where I was going with this…idea."

Egwene nodded tersely. "Yes, but that's hardly enough, Neya. Even if it meant that Demandred can be made to take an oath on the rod, the _ter'angreal_ only applies to female channelers. Unless you know of another artefact?" She asked Neya, but also turned to look at Asmodean.

Neya shook her head mutely, but Natael answered. "You mean this Binder of yours? I haven't found one like that, or one attuned to men. I haven't acquired anything even remotely interesting, in fact," he said sourly. "Al'Thor took the access key right out of my hand in Rhuidean, and the Choedan Kal were both destroyed, in any case."

_And a good thing, too_ , Egwene thought. "Then I don't see how that helps us. We need to make sure that Demandred won't go back on whatever agreement we make, if it comes to that."

"Egwene, if Bao gives up his connection to the Dark One, if he does it _willingly_ , he won't have anything to go back to. The Dark One will mark him for dead and the few remaining Forsaken will be more than happy to take his place. Once you remove the connection, there's no turning back," Neya explained. "And he will be quite aware of that, you can be certain. The same goes for Mazrim."

Egwene had all the facts, but she needed advice before she could make a final decision. "We will take this under consideration. Neya, if you don't mind, I think we will discuss this among ourselves. Don't take this the wrong way, but we cannot be certain of your…loyalties at the moment." Neya nodded in understanding and Egwene turned to Asmodean. "I think you know that means you as well. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside the tent, the both of you?"

"You're going to leave them unguarded?" Logain asked incredulously. "You haven't even shielded them!"

Light, she hadn't. Egwene mentally cursed herself. What was she thinking? There was simply too much on her mind. "I will shield Natael," she consented, “you shield Neya.” She allowed Logain to leave the circle. It would be safer to hold both shields separately. After fastening the weave upon Asmodean, Egwene turned to Gawyn, meaning to subtly ask him to accompany them outside the tent.

Leilwin bowed her head slightly. "Mother, if it pleases you, I will keep an eye on them. I have no say in this matter."

Egwene eyed the Seanchan woman thoughtfully before nodding in agreement. She felt safer with Gawyn at her side, she had to admit. "Very well."

Dismissing the three of them from her mind as they stepped outside, Egwene wove a ward against eavesdropping and turned to the others. This was going to be a lively debate.


	74. She's mad but she's magic

Neya sat down on the ground just outside the command tent. Natael hesitated; the ground was relatively dry, but it was still…well, dirt. He’d had these cream-coloured breeches tailored just a few weeks ago; they were fashioned after Min’s, and therefore quite snug. He had even assorted them with a short silk coat, the sort the Dragon’s paramour liked to wear. The only accessory he hadn’t yet given in to were the heeled boots. They just weren’t practical, especially on a muddy battlefield.

Natael eyed Neya, who was smiling up at him tentatively. Oh well. He would find someone to clean his clothes when this was all over. Or he’d just change into something else; he had packed enough clothes to last him a month, provided that he didn’t spent his entire time sitting in the dirt. He sat down next to Neya, though he left some distance between them. The stony-faced Seanchan woman remained standing, her back rigid, eyes alert. They were awkwardly silent for a long time.

Neya. He couldn't believe she was here. Oh, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of letting her know how glad – how flaming _relieved_ – he was to see her. He’d almost given up on her, and had even considered questioning Taim himself to find out exactly what had happened to her.

Looking back, he should have. At the very least, he should’ve insisted that al’Thor do something about it. They would have realised much sooner that Logain had been right all along. There had been something fishy going on at the Black Tower; Natael had divined that from the early days, though he had never imagined just how frighteningly efficient Taim could be. And yet, despite Natael’s urgings and even Min’s repeated appeals, the Dragon had stubbornly refused to even visit the cursed place.

Natael had not been idle since Neya had so abruptly put an end to their relationship – one of the few relationships Natael had ever truly cared about, despite its briefness. He'd slept with every willing man and woman he'd encountered since Neya had so heartlessly abandoned him, but he’d never come close to filling the hole she’d left inside him, loath as he was to admit it.

She was more beautiful than ever. She almost _glowed_. Her hair looked shinier, her breast fuller. It wasn’t fair-

He stared at her in shock, jaw slack. She'd just placed a hand on her stomach. She had a bump. Blood and ashes, was she  _pregnant_? With _Demandred’s child_? Darkness within! It was much, _much_ worse than he'd assumed.

Neya may have fooled the others, but Natael could read between the lines. Whoever that Shendla woman was, she wasn’t responsible for Neya’s sudden appearance. Demandred must have ensnared her, somehow. Neya obviously cared about him, enough to want to save his snooty arse.

It was true that Barid Bel had always had a way with women; he could be quite charming, charismatic even, when he put his mind to it. Why, he had even been Mierin's lover for a time, before the Collapse, although that had been purely a scheme on her part. Doubtless she had hoped that seeing them together would spark some semblance of jealousy in Lews Therin. What a fool she had been. Anyone who was lucky enough to marry Ilyena Sunhair would be insane to desire Mierin and her foul personality instead.

Something that Demandred had realised the hard way. He’d never gotten over the fact that his nemesis had stolen Ilyena from him. Barid Bel had changed drastically after he turned to the Shadow. Natael had never seen him with a woman after he became one of the Chosen. He was certainly not celibate, but he didn't show off his conquests as he used to – something he’d likely done in the hope that it would make Lews Therin jealous. Come to think of it, perhaps Demandred and Mierin had been made for each other – until their respective obsession for Lews Therin eventually tore them apart. Natael was fairly certain that Demandred and Nemene had had a fling, too, at some point. Maybe Saine had been involved as well; he wouldn't put it past any of them. They were all quite devious and perverted.

In any case, Barid Bel wasn't a man to settle down with anyone. For that matter, none of the Chosen were. In their days, in what was now called the Age of Legends, people seldom settled down or married. Many men and women had several lovers at any appointed time. The people of this backward age were incredibly narrow-minded about these matters.

It was therefore surprising to think that Neya might have managed what no woman of the Age of Legends had ever accomplished: she had successfully attached herself to Demandred, somehow. It had to be the case; he obviously trusted her enough to leave her unsupervised.

It was also inordinately annoying. Natael had had in mind to pursue Neya once the battle was over, if it turned out that she was still alive – and provided that Natael was, as well. What reason could she possibly have to deny him, when the danger had passed? But, clearly, she had created enough reasons now. And that was without even considering M'Hael, that ridiculously handsome upstart, and their  _kjasic_  bond. A thousand curses on whomever had come up with that blasted weave!

Natael realised he was shaking his head when he saw Neya frown at him worriedly. She must be wondering if he’d succumbed to the madness. Had he? It was difficult to tell. He hadn’t been subjected to the taint for long, after all, and he felt perfectly sane, thank you very much. Still, when Neya was done Healing Taim, perhaps she’d consent to take a look at Natael’s brains. Provided that the Amyrlin agreed to Taim’s terms, of course, which was…unlikely. Though that was hardly the craziest thing he’d heard that day, to be fair.

He gave Neya his most winning smile. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" he said sarcastically.

She chuckled softly. "I've seen worse. Jasin, I really am sorry. I didn't mean to expose you. I assumed Rand would have told them by now." She'd said that already, so he just shrugged it off. As the days went by, he had entertained the vague possibility of never having to reveal his true identity, but it had been a faint hope. It didn't matter much, in any case. Min could attest to his repenting acts; he had saved al'Thor's hide more than once and had even denied Tedronai when he’d come bearing an official pardon from the Great Lord himself on a silver platter. Natael wasn't too worried about his future, provided that al'Thor didn’t fail or break the world beyond salvation.

Speaking of the Dragon… Had Min lied earlier, to cover up for her unfortunate omission? Had al’Thor really said those things about Natael? It seemed too good to be true. Well, it _was_ true – Natael had obviously earned a pardon, not to mention a reward for keeping the Dragon alive for so long – but it was amazing that al’Thor had realised it all on his own. Perhaps his recent…epiphany had not only Healed his divided mind, but also made him wiser.

"You've been busy, it seems," Natael said, more to make conversation than anything else. He couldn’t abide awkward silences.

Neya smiled shyly. "I suppose I have." Abruptly, she scooted over closer to him. "I know you're still angry with me," she said. He let out a noncommittal grunt. He was more…despondent than truly angry, as a matter of fact. Not that he was about to tell her that. "Fair enough. Can we at least be civil to each other? And what I mean by that," she went on, "is can  _you_  be civil to me? You know why I left, Jasin. Whatever you might think, I was not looking for an excuse to leave you. And I missed you." She sounded sincere.

"Does it matter at this point?" he asked uncomfortably. He didn't want to talk about it. "That was months ago. It's water under the bridge," he said with false insouciance. "I've moved on, and so have you. Obviously," he muttered the last word under his breath, although loud enough for her to hear.

She put a hand on his arm. "I'm glad that you have." Could she just leave it at that? He really wasn't in the mood for an emotional moment. She removed her hand, and Natael had to refrain from putting it back on his arm. How he’d missed her touch. His heart twitched painfully as he remembered these happier days – and nights – spent in her company. Which in turn reminded him of his time with Elan, though he wasn’t sure why. _Because they’re the only two people in the world you’ve ever cared about, you idiot,_ a malicious voice whispered in his mind. He shooed it mentally, trying to focus on Neya. Now was hardly the time for an inner argument with himself. "When did Rand leave for Shayol Ghul?" Neya asked, her voice thick with disquiet.

Natael thought it over for a minute. "Eight days ago? Maybe nine. It's hard to keep track of the time in the present circumstances."

"Eight  _days_?" she repeated, eyes wide with shock. "Why is it taking so long? Have you had news from him?"

"Time slows down increasingly the nearer you get to Shayol Ghul," he explained with exaggerated patience. "Days have passed here, on the battlefield, but only hours, or even minutes, at Shayol Ghul. Al’Thor’s ultimate trial may have just begun, while we’ve been struggling against the Shadow’s hordes for longer than I thought possible. Of course, only the outcome of the Dragon’s duel against the Great Lord truly matters," he went on. "And no, we have received no message from him, nor do we expect to. He's rather busy, you see," he said dryly.

"Do you _have_ to be so condescending every time I ask you something?" Neya muttered irritably, rolling her eyes. He hadn't realised he was being condescending. Come to think of it, that might explain why people scowled at him when he talked to them. "Never mind," she told him, waving a hand indifferently. "I'm still going to ask questions, no matter how you answer. For instance, how's the battle going?"

"You really haven't been following at all, have you?" Ah, now he heard it. Yes, he sounded decidedly condescending. Oh well. "It's disastrous, is how it is. It was dire enough before Demandred turned up, but now it's downright chaotic. We're never going to win, no matter what your brother does or how much of his luck he applies to it. That's just my humble opinion, of course, but no one appears much more optimistic than I feel."

"Then why did you speak against Demandred joining us?" Neya wanted to know.

"I didn't say I was against it, I simply stated that it would never happen," he corrected her. Condescendingly. "You may think you know him better than I do, because you've shared his bed – obviously, you have,” – the heat blooming in her cheeks was confirmation enough. Not that he’d needed confirmation – “but believe me, nothing you say, nothing you offer him will make him yield and let Lews Therin go, especially now, when he's finally so close to satisfying his most fervent desire. Or so he believes." The Chosen must be out of his mind, not to have realised that al’Thor wasn’t on the battlefield. And everyone thought Demandred was so flaming intelligent. Hadn’t he done his homework properly? Anyone who’d met the bloody Dragon for five minutes would know that, if he’d been in a position to accept Demandred’s challenge, he would have. Even if it meant sacrificing himself to save a small portion of his army. He was too honourable for his own good. Natael could only hope that the Great Lord wouldn’t make al’Thor choose between saving the world or saving the women who’d accompanied him to Shayol Ghul. If that were the case, they were doomed.

"But don't you think it's at least worth the attempt?” Neya persisted. “If Bao joins our ranks–"

Natael snorted. Bao. What a ridiculous name his former associate had taken for himself. "Neya, you're deluding yourself. You love him, don't you?" She nodded unabashedly.  _Darkness within!_  "Well, burn me if I understand _why_ , but it doesn't matter. Your feelings for him are clouding your judgement." He gazed at her unblinkingly. He had to make her see sense. "The man is insane, Neya; he's a raving lunatic. He doesn't care about you, or the Sharans, or even about himself, really. All he cares about is Lews Therin. It used to be an obsession, an unhealthy one, but it's definitely turned into blind madness, now."

Neya chewed on her lower lip; a bad habit stemming from her anxious nature that Natael had attempted – and failed – to suppress. Mainly by kissing her whenever she did it. Obviously, he couldn’t do that now – no matter how much he wanted to. "Maybe you're right. I don't know anymore. I feel like I'm trying to save the world and the world keeps pushing me back. I can't even imagine what it must feel like to Rand," she murmured. She looked up to him, her bright green eyes shining with unshed tears. "I understand what you're saying, Jasin, but I can't stand idly by and watch Bao walk to his death without at least trying to help. Without trying to save him. Maybe my reason for doing so is not the right one, maybe it's wrong for me to love him, but at this point, right or wrong is irrelevant, don't you think? The Light and the Shadow are waging their final war. Everything else might seem insignificant in light of that, but that's something I can't accept. Every life matters, and I will save as many as I can, burn me if I don't."

She was so beautiful when she spoke like that. She looked so fierce, so passionate. It was all he could do not to kiss her. Blasted woman! She had a way of tangling your senses in a knot until you didn't know up from down. Her  _ta'veren_  nature certainly didn't help in that regard – and by the way, how had he not realised  _that_  before? It seemed so obvious, in retrospect. And it raised a most important question: would Natael have fallen for Neya, if not for her being _ta’veren_? What about Taim and Demandred? Had she drawn their unwanted attention simply by _existing_ , much as al’Thor had enticed not one, but _three_ women?

He couldn’t think straight. Neya sat so close to him that he could smell the scent of her soap – something delicate and flowery, but he couldn’t name it. It must be some exotic plant native to Shara. It was intoxicating. Her features suddenly brightened as she glanced at him. “Do you know what ‘bao’ means in Sharan?” she whispered mischievously. Natael shook his head, transfixed by her coy smile. The Great Lord help him, but he was falling in love with her all over again. Burn her _ta’veren_ nature! It had to be that. Surely. “It’s a type of potato,” she said with a giggle.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, genuinely so, and it was most certainly inappropriate to have a bout of hysterical laughter given the current situation, but by the time he caught his breath again, the Seanchan woman was glaring at him suspiciously, a hand on the pommel of her sword. Natael grinned at her before returning his attention to Neya. “Does he know?” he asked in a low voice.

Neya nodded, still smiling. “One of his men remarked upon it, one of the new recruits from the far east. That was just before they departed.”

Oh, this was _brilliant_. If Natael ever made it out of the Last Battle alive… and Demandred as well… and, well, provided that neither of them was executed in the aftermath… Ugh! Had Neya said that just so Natael would argue in favour of her insane ‘plan’? Because if that was the case, it was having the desired effect. To imagine the look on Demandred’s face when he called him _potato_ … He chuckled again. He could even make a song about it!

Seeing Neya smiling at him, so genuinely delighted to see him – unlike anyone else – had other, more complicated effects on Natael.

As he was considering whether to make one of his trademark bold moves and kiss her right then and there – Demandred and M’Hael be damned – the Trakand boy stepped out of the tent and commanded them to follow him inside.

Was it just Natael, or was the royal brat looking even more like a corpse than he did an hour earlier, before Neya’s impromptu arrival?


	75. My madness keeps me sane

M'Hael was sprawled in an uncomfortable chair in his tent, a goblet of wine in hand, and looked outwardly collected. Inside, however, his mind was roiling. He’d hoped that becoming one of the Chosen would cleanse his diseased mind. As was common these days, he’d been painfully wrong. What was the point of being all-powerful and immortal if you were not sane enough to enjoy it?

He was fairly certain that Neya would persuade the others to take the deal. He had a clearer idea of how she felt, now that she was closer, though the bond was still dysfunctional. She was…conflicted. She was nervous and afraid, but determined. The sudden surge of intense caring he’d felt when he’d appeared inside the command tent had left him almost dizzy. How could she still feel that way, after everything that had happened in the past few months? She knew about the Turning now; she must be so disappointed in him. Peace, she ought to despise him, to _hate_ him. And yet nothing of the like had transpired through the bond. Not yet, anyway. Her only reaction, upon hearing Logain’s brief account earlier, had been an overwhelming sadness. But for whom did she feel sad? M’Hael, or his victims?

He still had no idea whose bed she was – had been – sharing. Was she with one of those…Ayyad? And if not, how had she Travelled here? If she’d had the ability to make gateways herself, surely she would have come back sooner. Why was she returning now? Why was she alone? Why had Demandred left her in Shara? Did Demandred know that they were bonded? Was this a trap, to test M’Hael’s loyalty to the Great Lord?

He had a thousand questions, but no way to answer them.

Demandred had gone completely mad. Besides him, M’Hael was very likely the last remaining Chosen on the battlefield – he hadn’t heard anything from Hessalam and Moghedien. He didn’t know where Cyndane was. Or Moridin. He hadn’t seen the Nae’blis in days, and no one had deemed useful to inform him of his whereabouts. It was an every-man-for-himself situation.

M’Hael had decided to gamble his life on a whim. What did he have to lose? He would die, whatever he did. Perhaps, this way, he would die after recovering his sanity; perhaps he would have the chance to hold Neya one last time before the end. That was the best he could hope for at this point.

The madness, in itself, was not so bad. If anything, it had helped him during the last few weeks, numbing his capacity for regret and fear, among other things. He'd become accustomed to it, to the maelstrom of emotions raging inside him. Whereas his compassion and remorse had been dulled down to nothing, other emotions were far more exacerbated. He was perpetually angry and dissatisfied, bolder and more confident than he had ever been. He had challenged Demandred for leadership, earlier – a senseless mistake, but that had been before Neya returned. Hopefully, he would never see Demandred again – though he’d love to watch him die, whether the Chosen perished in battle or was executed for his crimes in the aftermath. Well, provided that al’Thor didn’t screw up, obviously. Otherwise Demandred would make mincemeat out of M’Hael and feed him to his pet channelers. Just before the Dark One destroyed the world.

In any case, M’Hael found that being mad, and being aware of it, didn't bother him nearly as much now as it used to. It was just that, this close to the end – he had no illusion as to his fate following the Last Battle; it would either be death at the hand of his enemies or annihilation as the Dark One took over the world – he was curious to know how many of his decisions had been made lucidly and how many had been the result of his insanity. There was a time when he could have sworn it had all been carefully considered, but he wasn't so certain anymore. He wasn't sure of anything, these days.

The hour was over. As he seized the True Power – or was seized by it, more accurately - M’Hael spared a moment to wonder whether he was walking into a trap, but quickly realised he didn't care, if it meant being close to Neya.

* * *

They were still discussing the matter, apparently. They all turned to face him as one when he appeared. "Time's up," he announced loudly. He couldn't see Neya anywhere, but the bond told him that she was just outside the tent. Elayne Trakand grimaced in disgust at the sight of him, and Logain growled audibly, but M’Hael ignored them both. He fixed his gaze on the child Amyrlin instead. She seemed to be making the calls.

Egwene al’Vere stared back at him levelly. She had some backbone, he would give her that. "We were just going over the details of your surrender, Master Taim," she informed him coolly.

"This isn't a surrender, Mother." The golden-haired boy at her side put a hand on his sword. Gawyn Trakand, M’Hael assumed. The lad looked incredibly pale and sickly, he noticed idly. "This is a transaction. My sanity and life against the seals. I never said anything about _surrendering_." He looked around the tent casually. "I would rather Neya was here to discuss the matter. She's part of the bargain, after all."

Al’Vere affected not to hear him. "We have modified the terms, Taim. You will be cleansed from the taint's corruption, and you will not be harmed or gentled, but you must join in the battle. Additionally, your link to the Dark One will be severed. We will not back down on that condition." The Amyrlin gave him a stern look, as if daring him to refuse.

What in the Pit of Doom was she going on about? Could the connection be broken? Nobody had ever said anything about that. "Fetch Neya, then we'll talk." He was stalling, considering her words and what they implied. Not being linked to the Dark One meant being mortal once more, but what did it matter? He was a dead man walking. They would never hold to their part of the bargain, he was sure of that. They would speak all the right words, of course, but there would be a loophole somewhere. There always was. Not that he cared, but Neya would – probably. Maybe. He really should have severed their bond the moment Demandred's gateway had closed behind her. He wasn't sure that he could bring himself to do it now, even tenuous as their connection was. It was such a relief to have her in his mind once again. Her presence was comforting, reassuring.

The Amyrlin had beckoned her bodyguard to fetch Neya, and they were both stepping back inside the tent, followed by a tall man holding a harp, of all things. M'Hael thought he'd seen him before. Nathaniel, Natael? He was al'Thor's personal bard, or something.

He didn’t waste much thought on the harpist, instead focusing his attention on Neya. His heart began hammering against his ribs as she drew closer. Peace, how he had missed her.

Neya walked straight toward him, albeit hesitantly. Why had he pushed her away earlier, when all he wanted to do was to bury his head against her neck and forget about everything else? But he couldn’t. He didn’t deserve her. Not after what he’d done – which he could hardly forget, with Logain snarling at him, fists clenched at his sides.

Neya gave M’Hael a tentative smile as she approached him, and he felt her through the bond, a bright ray of sunlight in the omnipresent darkness. She was so beautiful, she practically glowed. Shara certainly agreed with her. He longed to touch her, but that was neither the time nor the place. In any case, she might not want him to. She kept a certain distance between them, though there was no trace of scorn or anger in the bond. She was scared, though. Was she afraid of him? No. _For_ him.

Peace, he was rambling. He had to focus.

"Well, she's here. Will you talk now, you flaming whoreson?" That was Logain, eloquent as ever.

No, that wasn't fair. The man had a way with words, when he put his mind to it. He could turn a few short sentences into a vibrant speech and make everyone want to follow him to the Pit of Doom. At the moment, he was just a teensy bit angry with M'Hael. Something to do with those attempts to Turn the man to the Shadow, assuredly. "I see that you're trying to be insulting, Logain, and I appreciate the effort, but the only people who might be offended by this are those who are not, in fact, whoresons. Because if you were one, you'd know that it is nothing to be ashamed of. Whores are just trying to get by and provide for their families, just like anyone else." He delivered the lecture in a low, even tone. It wasn't the first time he'd been called that – though it’d been a while, admittedly. Neya was looking at him curiously. He’d never told her about this. Not because he was ashamed – it simply served no purpose. And she’d never asked.

As expected, Logain reddened in embarrassment. The man had a temper worthy of any Saldaean woman, but it usually cooled down as quickly as it flared. "Not everyone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth, you know," M’Hael went on wryly, knowing it would ignite Logain’s temper once more. The nobleman scorned any reference to his past and former lordship. Indeed, Logain seemed almost ready to unsheathe his sword, but the hulking giant who stood beside him put a warning hand on his arm. He wore the _hadori_. Every Borderlander knew what that meant: he had to be al'Lan Mandragoran, the uncrowned king of…well, nothing, really. Malkier was long dead, the Seven Towers swallowed by the Blight decades ago.

"Master Taim," the Amyrlin went on with clear exasperation, "are you willing to forgo your link to the Dark One and join our ranks, in exchange for what you asked for and on the condition that you provide the authentic, unbroken seals?" she demanded imperiously.

"Why would you want me to join your ranks? Would you really trust me to fight at your side?" he asked sarcastically. Logain scoffed, and everyone else glared at him – except Neya. The harpist, oddly enough, was studying M’Hael attentively, a snide smirk playing on his lips. Why was a simple bard allowed to attend this particular negotiation? "I thought not. I give you the seals, you give me what I want. You may remove the Dark One's leash, if you know how…for all the good it will do now," he went on with a grimace. "But I will not fight. Not for you, not for anyone. As soon as we're done here, I'm leaving, and I don't intend to come back." He could tell that they didn't like that, not even Neya, judging by the sudden spike of distress through the bond. What else would she have him do?

Logain was shaking his head. "And you really think we'd let you wander wherever you want, unshielded, without supervision?"

"What about exiling him?" Neya said. "We discussed that earlier, didn't we?" M'Hael turned to her, frowning slightly. The bond was all fierce determination now, with a touch of annoyance. "I don't know what you agreed on, but you could simply exile him to…a place of your own choosing, when this is all done. If he agrees to fight." She glanced up at him. She was trying to show him that she would not let them cheat him, but that he had to compromise. How naïve she still was. Where could they exile him, anyway? To the Blight?

He was about to point that out when the Amyrlin spoke. "You would have us confine him in Shara. That was your idea, wasn’t it?" Neya nodded. Shara? He hadn't considered that. It wasn't entirely stupid, actually. When the battle was over, if the Light somehow managed to win, Demandred would be dealt with, provided that he didn't die before the end. M'Hael could settle down in Shara. Neya might even agree to come with him. Could he really afford to hope? It was tempting. The Amyrlin's next words brought him out of his reverie, effectively shattering this briefly envisioned dream. "What about Demandred? You would have them both be banished to the same land?"

_What?_ M'Hael thought incredulously. He was stunned speechless for a moment.

"Shara's bigger than you know," Neya told her matter-of-factly. “You could put all the Forsaken there and still have room to spare. In any case, when this is over, they won't be Forsaken anymore.” The Amyrlin was nodding as if it made perfect sense.

"Wait a second," M'Hael broke in, peering down at Neya. "What in the Pit of Doom are you talking about? You want to bring _Demandred_ to the Light?" She grinned at him. Grinned! Peace, she was the crazy one, not him. And _why_ would she possibly want the Chosen on their side? Sure, he was a capable general, but… Ugh. Most likely, Neya was just being Neya, and trying to save everyone – including those who clearly didn’t want to be saved. "Neya," he said patiently, "Demandred will never return to the Light. I don't know how he was when he left Shara, but he's insane, love. And it's not the taint. He's just a regular madman, but a madman nonetheless."

"Mazrim," Neya said lightly, "I know." He scowled at her. "I'm trying to cure him of that, same as I intend to do with you," she explained. He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. Everyone else had fallen silent and was following their conversation. "I know it's not something I can pick out of his brain. But common madness is just another disease, whether or not you can see it. It's a work in progress," she concluded with a shrug. The words sounded crazy, but her voice radiated confidence. The bond was full of love and caring, the two emotions M'Hael was most used to receive from her. He could tell that part of it was not meant for him, however.

Oh, Trolloc balls.

No. It couldn’t be. She was sleeping with _Demandred_? She must be mad. Was she under Compulsion? Light, what had he done to her? M'Hael reached out to Neya, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, gazing into her green eyes. She blushed slightly; she wouldn’t meet his eyes. The bond was now a complicated mixture of embarrassment, defiance, worry and frustration.

Demandred.

_Demandred!_

M’Hael almost seized the True Source. He almost fled. He couldn’t… After everything they’d been through… If it had been anyone else, he might have understood, but… He felt so _betrayed_. He felt like Neya had stuck a knife in his heart and twisted the blade – which was ironic, really.  _The one who twists the blade_ indeed.

He couldn’t breathe. He felt nauseous.

The tent was eerily silent. Did _they_ know? No, they wouldn’t be listening to Neya if they did, and they didn’t have the bond to sense her feelings. What lies had she fed them?

M'Hael had expected a trap, with Neya as possible bait, but he didn't expect her to lay the trap herself.

Blood and flaming ashes! What was he supposed to do now? This changed _everything_. He couldn’t possibly agree to be exiled to Shara with flaming Demandred. He would rather die.

He resolutely turned away from Neya, feeling ill, and gazed at the rest of them. "You didn't actually agree to this madness, did you?"

"That's really none of your business, traitor," Logain told him sharply.

"Master Taim," the Amyrlin said crisply, after directing a withering glare at Logain, "as you pointed out earlier, time is a precious commodity. Do we have a deal, on these terms? Are you willing to be exiled to Shara, to live out your days there?"

It was too late to back down now. The other Forsaken – and that included Demandred; no matter what Neya thought, the man was devoted heart and soul to the Shadow – must have spies inside the command tent. Should M'Hael refuse the Light's offer, the Shadow would destroy him the moment he stepped out. As a matter of fact, he was surprised that nobody had come for him after his first visit. He turned to Neya once more, albeit reluctantly. She looked so earnest, so confident. She gave him a fond smile and the bond once more radiated with love – entirely directed at him, this time.

Light burn him! Now the only thing he could hope for was that Demandred threw their senseless offer in their faces. It would hurt Neya, but... It was M'Hael's only chance. He couldn't let Demandred have her.

M’Hael sighed heavily before speaking, dragging the words out with some difficulty. "We have a deal."


	76. Love is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed

An hour ago, Neya had thought him dead, and now Mazrim was not only alive, but he was going to live for a very long time, if she had her way.

She wondered what he thought of her. Had he noticed that she’d put on weight? Did he know that she was pregnant? Nobody had remarked upon it, so she assumed that they hadn't noticed, but Mazrim was always quick to see what others did not.

She had not expected their reunion to be so bloody _awkward_. Then again, she hadn’t expected to ever be reunited with Mazrim, thanks to Elan. Why had he lied? He’d never been cruel before. Not to her, at least. Or had he meant to say that _Mazrim_ was dead, but that he’d been reborn as M’Hael? If so, Neya would definitely punch him in the throat when she next saw him. If she ever saw him again. Was he at Shayol Ghul with Rand? Light, to think Rand had been gone for _days_. Was it a good sign? Surely, if the Dragon were dead, they would have noticed by now. Neya had to believe that he was still fighting, that her work here was not vain.

It had been quite a shock to see Mazrim again, after so long. He had lost weight. His coat was splattered with dried mud and frayed at the cuffs; he looked like he hadn’t bathed in days. Admittedly, this was the Last Battle, and not everyone had had the opportunity to soak in warm water just a few hours earlier. And he had a beard! When had _that_ happened? It looked good on him, but she preferred him without facial hair.

The bond had resurfaced in the back of her mind, now that they were closer but, even standing beside him, it was difficult to tell how he felt, most of the time. He was numb, almost…hollow. Maybe it had something to do with the Dark One's hold on him, or the taint's grip on his mind. She would find out soon, in any case. Her fingers itched to Heal him.

Light, how she longed to _touch_ him. To hold him close to her, to make sure that he was _there_ , that he was _real._

But she couldn’t. She was married now. She had to keep that in mind.

Mazrim knew about her and Bao; that much was certain. The look in his eyes when they’d been discussing Bao's potential defection from the Shadow… It made Neya want to break down and cry. The hurt, the sense of betrayal she’d felt through the bond, despite its murkiness… It made her feel sick. It made her reconsider everything, the whole plan.

Should she really try to convince Bao? It seemed so futile. She had not anticipated this…display of senseless rage. She hadn’t seen him, but she’d heard him, alright. He did sound like a lunatic. He didn’t sound like her husband at all. When he’d opened the gateway, Kal had told Neya that the Wyld had gone wild indeed. He’d meant it as a jest, but the troubled look in his eyes had been enough to send shivers of fear and worry down Neya’s spine. Kal claimed that Bao had laid waste to the Light’s armies without blinking, using Balefire. Then he’d begun shouting, demanding that Lews Therin fight him in person. It sounded like something had snapped inside Bao’s mind. He’d lost control. Was it too late? Had she waited too long to act? Burn Shendla! Neya had relied upon the woman to keep a leash on Bao’s temper, at least until Neya arrived.

She had to get herself together. She had sworn an oath. She had to save Bao at all costs. She _had_ to.

But she wouldn’t let that stop her from saving Mazrim, too.

* * *

After relinquishing the remaining seals – Neya couldn't quite believe that these brittle disks were all that still kept the Dark One's at bay – she had expected that Egwene would want to sever Mazrim's link to the Dark One before doing anything else, and she was not disappointed.

Egwene let Neya do the introductions. "This is Jasin Natael, formerly known as Asmodean, and Joar Addam Nessosin before that," she told Mazrim, cocking her head toward the former Forsaken. Mazrim took it in stride, as he did everything else. Judging by the shrewd look in his eyes, he’d already guessed that Jasin was not a simple gleeman. Or perhaps he’d known all along who he truly was. She sometimes forgot that Mazrim had likely attended Forsaken meetings, or had at least been given privileged knowledge reserved for the highest-ranking Darkfriends. She pursued her explanation regardless. "Months ago, Rand managed to identify the link that connected him to the Dark One, and he was able to remove it."

Jasin took over from there. "I didn't see what he was doing, exactly," he said sulkily. It was good to see him, too. Neya had been worried about him, worried about what Rand might do to him when he no longer needed his tutoring or insights. Jasin hadn’t changed a bit; he was still the same brash, cocky woolhead she knew and loved. Yes, she did love him, too, but it was…different now. They’d obviously moved past the ‘lovers’ stage of their relationship. Had he ever truly cared for her, or had he seen her as a mere pastime? It was difficult to tell, with Jasin. "But with some probing, I'm confident I can replicate the deed," he went on. Without another word, he set out to do just that. Mazrim and he began to talk in low voices. Mazrim appeared as eager to get rid of the connection as Neya was. Egwene had set guards all around them, of course, now that Jasin wasn’t shielded anymore. Mazrim, of course, had been shielded from the moment he’d agreed to the terms of his surrender – or whatever he wished to call it. Neya wondered if she should offer some help, but Jasin glanced at her, as though he’d read her mind. “Since we mentioned Semirhage earlier, I’ve been thinking… Perhaps al’Thor _did_ attempt to sever her connection to the Great…to the Dark One. Perhaps it cannot be done by a man, when the Chosen is female, and vice versa.”

“Rand never said anything about that,” the woman called Min said with a frown.

The golden-haired lady sniffed. “Perhaps he didn’t tell even _you_ everything.”

Egwene rolled her eyes and turned to face the two bickering women. “Can we please focus on the matter at hand?”

Mat approached Neya a moment later, taking advantage of the distraction to talk to her in private. "What in the flaming Pit of Doom happened to you?" he asked in a low voice. "I mean, I get that you were in Shara and all, but what _happened_? Couldn't you send a message, or something? You were there a bloody long time. Are you really _ta'veren_?"

Neya couldn’t suppress a smile. Light, how would he react when he learned what had _really_ happened in Shara? She thought it best to elude the question for now. "I suppose I am. Everybody keeps saying so, anyway," she said with a casual shrug. "Is everyone alright? Perrin, Nynaeve?"

"Aye, they're fine," Mat replied without thinking, then frowned slightly. "That is…they were when I last saw them. Nynaeve’s at Shayol Ghul with Rand and Moiraine. Perrin–"

"Moiraine?" Neya repeated with a start. Moiraine was alive? How was that possible? Light! Did that mean that Lanfear…?

"Oh. I guess you don't know about that. Well, turns out she didn’t die, she was just stuck in the Finn realm. I got her out," Mat muttered.

Neya chuckled softly. "That explains the missing eye." She’d been wondering about that. Mat was terrible at bargaining, unlike their father. Her brother gave her a sour one-eyed look. "And Perrin?"

"I don't know. He said he had to do something, but I didn't enquire. There's been a lot going on, as you can imagine. They've just handed the command over to me, after what happened to the Great Captains," he told her with a grimace. "Neya, are you sure about Demandred? Taim has a point. The man's not all there. It's flaming obvious even from a distance."

"And I already confirmed as much. Just…trust me on this, Mat. Please?" Light, how could she ask this of him? The fate of the world may depend on the faith Neya placed in Bao. Was he truly worthy of it? He had to be. She had to believe it. She did her best to look perfectly confident.

Her brother sighed. "I could probably straighten things out, with a wagonload of luck, but with that flaming son of a goat on our side… The battle would be all but won. Provided that Rand doesn't screw up, of course," he amended. "If he does, we're all doomed.”

"Then we'd better make sure everything works out here, in case Rand does succeed. It would be ironic, if he defeated the Dark One only to realise that we've all ended up in the Trollocs' cook pots."

"Exactly," Mat said with a smirk. "But if we're going to get Demandred over, we should do it soon, before the rest of his armies are gathered for the big finale and he decides to strike. He won’t wait for ‘Lews Therin’ indefinitely."

"Neya?" Jasin called from behind her. "I think I found it, but you might want to get rid of your blasted bond before I sever the thing. It hurts like a…" He cleared his throat. "That is to say, it's quite painful."

Mazrim glanced at Neya, the question obvious in his eyes. "Don't worry about the bond. Just do it," she told Jasin firmly. "We're wasting time."

Mazrim frowned at her dubiously but said nothing. Jay shrugged and returned his attention to Mazrim. There was a moment of complete silence; everyone in the tent seemed to be holding their breath. Then Mazrim went down on his knees, grunting in pain. Neya stalked toward him. If what she felt through the bond was any indication, masked as it was, he must be in agony. She knelt in front of him, clutching his arm. Light, but she hated to see people suffer, and him most of all. "It's alright. You're doing fine," she whispered comfortingly.

The look in his eyes was just as painful to her as the sensation that surged through the bond. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

Neya felt her eyes fill with tears. She couldn’t take it for another second. She pulled Mazrim in a tight hug, sobbing with relief and grief and cursing the Pattern for her Light-forsaken life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _bloody_ fair!

The others in the tent were muttering and scoffing, but Neya paid them no attention. Mazrim was all that mattered at the moment. If she hugged him tightly enough, perhaps she could absorb some of his pain. It took a while for her tears to subside. Mazrim was trembling under her touch. "We'll just have to wait a moment before I can Heal the madness caused by the taint,” she told him softly. “The pain might fog your brain and make it more complicated for me to…"

"Neya, we don't have time for that now," Egwene broke in gently. Neya turned to glare at her, carelessly wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. The Amyrlin was standing a few paces away from them, a strange look on her face. "It's not a priority. It will have to wait until the battle is over."

Neya jumped back to her feet. Mazrim let out a weak chuckle, as if he hadn't expected anything else. That was likely the case. How could she have been so _stupid_? She just never learned. "And what about him?" Neya asked sharply, pointing to the golden-haired boy – she hadn't caught his name, but given the way he shadowed Egwene, he was very likely her Warder. "Do you also want me to wait until it's all over before I Heal _him_? By the looks of him, he won’t last much longer."

Egwene scowled at her, then glanced at the pallid boy. "Gawyn? He's not sick."

"Oh? Does he always look like a bloodless corpse, then?" Neya told her wryly.

Egwene turned to face Gawyn, her brow knit. She looked at him as if she had never seen him before. She must have been exhausted, not to notice his alarming pallor, especially if they were bonded. "Mother, there's nothing wrong with me," he muttered angrily. "She's just trying to deceive you."

Egwene was obviously struggling internally, but she shook her head eventually. "He's just tired, Neya. We all are. We've been at it much longer than you know." She let out a small sigh. "We can't afford to Heal anything but the most grievous injuries right now."

"That's not fair, and you know it! You promised to let me Heal Mazrim," Neya said through clenched teeth. "And don't give me your Aes Sedai speech on stating the truth creatively. I know you didn't say _when_ I could do it, but I'm not in the mood for your mind games, _Mother_." She threw the word in her friend's face like a curse. “It will only take an hour!” Well, given Mazrim’s advanced state, it would likely take longer than that, and leave Neya drained besides, but she could not delay any longer. What if-

"Neya," Egwene said quietly, "you're one the best Healers we have, one of the _last_ Healers we have on the battlefield. We can't afford to let you use up all your energy on Taim just before the last stand begins."

"She's got a point," Mazrim said. He was back on his feet, although he didn't look too steady. Neya gave him a look that, she hoped, conveyed all the annoyance and irritation she felt at that instant. His sudden grin told her it did. Light, it was good to see him smile. Perhaps she could somehow salvage their relationship…turn it into something else? No, she would not think about that now.

She whirled to face Egwene instead. "Eggs, you've just removed the only thing that kept the madness at bay," she said, unable to keep a trace of despair from her voice. "What if he… What if…" She couldn't put her thought into words. _What if the madness breaks him? What if he goes out in a blaze of fire, as my father did, before I have a chance to Heal him?_

"I've fought it off for over a decade, love. One more day won't make much difference," Mazrim told her quietly. He'd never called her that before, when she lived with him at the Black Tower. It made her feel incredibly sad. Mat was glaring at Mazrim. Hadn't he yet realised that they used to be lovers? He could be so thick, sometimes.

"If we're going to make contact with Demandred, we have to do it now, before it's too late," Egwene said urgently.

" _Bajad drovja_!" Neya cursed, letting all her frustration and concern flow freely for a brief moment.

Mat gaped at her in astonishment and Jay snorted with laughter. "You certainly didn't learn _that_ from Demandred," he said. "That sounds like something Sammael would say. Did you share his bed as well?" he asked her nastily, but regretted it immediately when Mazrim clouted him on the ear. Several of the others frowned in confusion. Burn him! If they realised that Neya had shared Demandred’s bed – among other things – they would never give her a chance to contact him.

"Can we focus on the task at hand, please?" Egwene said, fixing her eyes on Neya. "How do you want to proceed? Do you know how to make this…window you spoke of?"

"Um…no, but he probably does," Neya replied, gesturing toward Jasin. She threw him a withering look while she was at it. He could be so puerile, sometimes.

Jasin sneered. "Of course I know how."

"Then do it," Neya told him impatiently. Light! She'd forgotten how irritating he could be, sometimes.

“A demonstration first, Master Natael,” Egwene warned him. “I want to test it before we proceed.”

Jasin must have done as requested because a few seconds later, a sort of glittering gateway appeared. It looked exactly like a gateway, in fact, but felt as solid as a brick wall. Weaves couldn't get through, either. Bao claimed that he had come up with the idea first, in the beginning of the War of Power, when he still fought for the Light. Egwene and the golden-haired pregnant girl – Neya really should have asked Jay for everyone's name while they waited outside – both walked up to it and put a hand inside it, or tried to. Egwene embraced the Source and channeled a thread of Air that melted when it came in contact with the surface of the window. She turned to Logain, obviously expecting him to test it with _saidin._ The result, judging by Logain’s face, was the same. Eventually, both women nodded in satisfaction, but one of the younger-looking Aes Sedai stepped forward. "What about the True Power, Mother?"

Egwene turned to Neya, but it was Jasin who answered. "Nothing can get through, Aes Sedai, I assure you. Demandred spent quite a lot of time experimenting with these."

The Amyrlin nodded. "Logain, did you see how to weave the window open?” He nodded curtly. “Then you will do it yourself.” Jasin smirked but wisely kept his mouth shut, for once.

Egwene inhaled deeply. “Whenever you're ready," she told Neya. "Just tell us what to do."

"Ideally, nothing. Let me talk, make no sudden movement and, if you really have to speak, do not interrupt him. Or me, for that matter. Don't curse," Neya added, glancing at Mat. "And of course, don't channel, or even touch the Source. It can't go through the window," she said before Egwene could speak, "and he probably won't be able to tell anyway, but I'd rather not take any chances. He'll be angry enough as it is, there's no need to infuriate him any more than is strictly necessary." 'Angry' was a mild word for it. He would be enraged. Neya could only hope that Bao would let her talk before acting on his temper. "Before we begin, I just want to make sure that we're clear on the terms," she said, glaring at Egwene. "He will never be prosecuted, harmed or gentled. Or executed." She spared a second to wonder why no one was curious to know why she was so insistent on keeping Bao alive. Not that she complained – if at all possible, the extent of her relationship with him would be kept secret until the battle was over, mainly because it would only further convince them that she was his puppet. "I will negotiate for Sakarnen – the _sa'angreal_ – to be handed over and for his armies to fight for the Light. After the battle, he will be exiled to Shara, like Mazrim. And he will retain his right to the crown, because even if you disagree with that, there's not much you can do to prevent it. The Sharans practically worship him.” _And I wouldn’t know how to rule such a large nation on my own,_ she added to herself. “His link to the Dark One will be severed, and I'll insist that it’s the first thing we'll see to. Furthermore, the people of Shara will not be judged for following Bao." Neya fell silent, expecting cries of protest, but none came.

The golden-haired girl did have something to add, however. "If we're really doing this, we should _at least_ force Demandred to sign the Dragon's Peace, as King of Shara. Although it's unlikely that he'll regard it as the binding agreement it is. I still don't think it's a good idea, Mother," she told Egwene with a pout.

"I don't know what the Dragon's Peace is," Neya said with a shrug, "but I'm sure I can get him to sign it. But Eggs, I need your word that it will be those terms, _exactly_. No loopholes, no craftily hidden lies."

Egwene nodded solemnly and spoke without hesitation. "By my hope of salvation and rebirth, I agree to those exact terms, in the name of all who serve the Light."

Several of the others gasped as Neya let out a small sigh of relief. That was a binding oath if she'd ever heard one.

"You should all stand back." When they complied, Neya took a deep breath and gestured for Logain to open a window.


	77. Ah, curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!

Neya told Mazrim to move aside, so that Bao would not see him. It was vaguely safer this way.

The window opened inside Bao's tent, but her husband wasn't there. Shendla was, however.

"Ah, there you are," the older woman said with her usual brisk manner. She was sensible enough to use the Common Tongue. "I was wondering when you'd show up, girl." Neya couldn't help a relieved grin. That was one weight off her chest, at least. She briefly wondered if Shendla had had a dream or vision regarding this very moment. Had she known all along what Neya intended to do? Could that explain why she'd been so unconcerned about the Last Battle approaching, with Bao still very intent on killing Rand? "Have you cut an acceptable deal with your people?"

"I have indeed,” Neya replied. At least she hoped Bao would consider it acceptable. “Is he nearby?" Before the last word was out of her mouth, Bao appeared beside Shendla, still wearing his ludicrous armour. It clanged ominously as he approached the window.

His face looked like thunder – although, admittedly, it might not have been obvious to anyone but Neya. Instead of addressing her, however, he turned to Shendla. "You lied to me," he murmured dangerously, in coarse Sharan dialect.

Shendla arched an eyebrow. "Did I? I told you that the girl was important, Bao, that you needed her to fulfil your destiny," she answered in the same language. "You assumed it meant that she would ultimately help you achieve your goal, to kill the dead man, the _ulikar_ 's prophesised Dragon, but I never said that. I said she would help you save us. That is exactly what she's doing. I'm afraid your arrogance and self-confidence have gotten the better of you, Bao." Neya could feel the people gathered behind her itching to ask what was being said.

"I should kill you where you stand!" Bao snarled at Shendla, in the Common Tongue this time. There was a nervous rustle in the command tent.

"Bao, don't," Neya cut in hastily. "Please. It was my idea. You have to listen to me. Lews Therin is not-"

At that moment, Bao turned to face her. Neya almost wished he hadn't. No one else would recognise the stricken look in his eyes, but she did. How had she ever thought him cold and devoid of emotions? She may not share a bond with her husband, but she was willing to bet that he felt just as betrayed as Mazrim did, though for different reasons. She felt faint. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mazrim take a step forward, ready to catch her if she fell. Thankfully, he remained out of Bao's line of sight. Neya took a deep breath. She had to stand her ground. If Shendla could do it, if she could remain poised despite the murderous gleam in Bao’s eyes, so could Neya. She had withstood Lanfear’s wrath, after all. Surely she could handle her own husband.

"How _dare_ you?” he roared. “You took an oath!" he told her accusingly, in the Sharan dialect once more. And a good thing, too. Behind Neya, several people huffed in annoyance, while others gasped at the vehemence in Bao’s tone.

"Yes, I did," she answered in the same language. She prayed to the Light that no one understood Sharan. It was unlikely, but still… "I swore to care for you and to always act in your best interest, Bao. What do you think I'm doing?" she replied fiercely, her voice almost as dangerous as his. That was the worst thing he could have said. How dare he imply that she was breaking her vows? "Do you remember what _you_ swore?"

His face took on that stony expression that Neya knew only too well. The sudden silence lingered ominously. "I will crush your puny allies, and you will watch them burn," Bao said eventually, in the Common Tongue. Of course he had to say _that_ in the Common Tongue. Before Neya could think of a reply, he stalked away, his armour jangling almost comically.

Neya stared after him for a moment. That was not how she had expected this meeting to proceed. It wasn't like Bao to run away from a fight, even a verbal one. Absurdly, Shendla was smiling. It was a disturbing sight; the blasted woman smiled about as often as Bao did. "You have done well, girl."

"I…I have?" Neya asked incredulously. What in the Pit of Doom was she talking about? Neya had most likely doomed them all with her insane plan! Bao was going to Balefire everything and everyone.

"Obviously,” Shendla said calmly. “We would be dead already, were his threats not empty. It'll take some time for him to admit that he was wrong. He _is_ a man, after all," she added with a faint chuckle. Without another word, she followed Bao outside.

Neya could only stare at the tent flap as it fell back into place. She considered their exchange thoughtfully. In truth, Shendla had a point. Despite his harsh words, Bao hadn't actually _done_ anything. Neya strained her ears for any indication that her husband might have started raining destructive weaves on the Light’s armies, but the world was eerily quiet. Inside the command tent, no one was talking. The window winked out of existence when Logain decided that Bao wasn't coming back.

"That went well," Mat said sarcastically after a minute, finally breaking the silence.

"What did they say?" the golden-haired girl demanded, eyes blazing. "Did you even _mention_ the deal?" She threw up her hands. “I _knew_ this was a bad idea!”

"Fish guts! Why didn't you ask them to speak in the Common Tongue, girl?" That was from the youthful Aes Sedai with the Tairen accent.

Suddenly, everyone was talking at once, urging Neya to translate the entire exchange, while the tall, beautiful boy dressed in white accused her of deception and treachery. Neya thought his name was Galad.

The Amyrlin raised her hands and ordered them all to be silent. Addressing Neya, she asked for the gist of it. "It's complicated," Neya said with a small sigh. "You see, that was Shendla. As I mentioned earlier, she's been trying to put Bao on the right path practically since she met him, but she had to be subtle about it. She had to humour him. I told you about the Sharan Prophecies. Bao’s just been interpreting them the wrong way, is all. Hopefully he'll realise that, and soon."

"You really trust her, then? This Shendla?" Egwene asked.

"I do. She sounded rather confident, didn’t she? And I have other allies among the Sharans. You see, the Freed, the former slaves, are utterly devoted to Bao, but I'll wager they're not too happy at having to side with the Trollocs, no more than the rest of the army. Bao never mentioned that he would have them fight for the Shadow." Mazrim moved closer to her while she talked. His face was utterly impassive, but Neya knew better. The bond was a chaotic jumble of jealousy, anger and bitterness. Neya chanced a smile at him, but he made no sign that he’d noticed. He was staring at the spot where the window had stood a moment ago, his dark eyes flashing. Neya went on in a subdued tone. "My people know to expect something, but I couldn't be too…specific. I wasn't sure how you would react, or if you would even hear me out." Every eye in the tent was fixed on her. Their silence and judgmental glares were nerve-racking. It was all Neya could do not to stutter and wring her hands like a child caught stealing pies. "Bao needs to cool off. He'll reach out to us when he's regained his composure, I’m sure.” She wasn’t. Not even close. “I can't promise you that he'll agree, however, and whatever Shendla believes, there's no telling that he won't decide to go on a killing spree, if only in petty retaliation. He can be…unpredictable at times." That was an understatement, but they didn't need to know that.

The look in the Amyrlin’s eyes was shrewd, calculating. She was obviously wondering what had been said, exactly. Thankfully, she didn't request a word-for-word transcript of the entire conversation. "Then we wait," Egwene declared eventually, "but not too long. Time is of the essence. If Demandred hasn't made contact in an hour, we'll have to start making preparations, discuss new strategies. And I intend to make use of your knowledge of him and his armies, should he refuse," she added woodenly.

Neya nodded reluctantly. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. If she had to actually betray her husband… No, she wouldn't consider that, not unless she absolutely had to.

Not unless the fate of the world truly depended on it.


	78. For every man there is a purpose

_"For every man there is a purpose, which he sets up for his life and which he pursues. Let yours be the doing of all good deeds."_

 

Shendla sat down on the ground across from Bao, her legs crossed in the Sharan way. The Wyld was meditating, or he appeared to be. She had hoped that Mintel would be there, but she hadn't seen the old man in a while. The girl had really done well - the _Queen_ had done well. She had wormed her way inside Bao's heart as surely as a maggot crawls inside a rotted corpse's flesh.

This might actually work.

Her visions about the Last Battle had been frighteningly unclear. Shendla was not used to them being so unreliable, but she had expected it. Nothing about this moment was fixed. Anything could happen.

"I hope you don't intend to plan your next move solely on the fact that your pride was pricked," she said brusquely.

"Why do you think I am meditating for, woman?" Bao was never rude to anyone unless he was truly upset. That was a good sign. The Wyld took a long, calming breath, but didn't bother to open his eyes. "How long have you two been conspiring against me?" he asked again. He sounded hurt. Good. That meant that he cared.

"Oh, we never discussed it,” she said dismissively. “It was all your wife’s idea, just like she said. Did you really expect her to stand idly by? She has often tried to persuade you to turn your cloak."

"Indeed," he concurred softly. "I thought I had finally convinced her that my way was the right one."

"Nobody thinks that," Shendla stated matter-of-factly. Bao opened his eyes at that and scowled at her. Good grief! It was worse than she had assumed. How deeply did his delusions run? "What?" she asked him crisply. "Did you truly believe that your people were happy to find themselves fighting alongside these creatures of nightmare?" she went on, gesturing toward the area where the Shadowspawn had temporarily set up camp. Bao didn't answer. His mouth was set in a tight line. "They follow you because you are the Wyld, their saviour, their king. They execute your orders because they assume that, ultimately, you will reveal your true intentions, which would ideally involve fighting  _against_  the monstrosities. The fact that they're still here, despite their uneasiness, is a testimony of the faith and loyalty they have in you. They are your people, Bao. They depend on you. Do not disappoint them." With that, Shendla got back to her feet. The Queen had played her part in this little scheme, and now Shendla had played hers. The rest was up to Bao. This was the moment of truth. Would he become their saviour, or would he doom them all?

Without another word, Shendla left Bao to consider his next move.

* * *

M’Hael had always hated waiting. He could be very patient when he needed to be, or at least appear to be, but waiting for Demandred to return with an answer was getting on his already-frayed nerves.

He wanted to talk to Neya, but he wasn't sure what to say, or where to begin. In the end, she saved him the trouble.

"Are you alright?" she asked him worriedly. "Does it still hurt?" The bond flickered between guilt, frustration and concern.

He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to hate her. It would certainly make everything much easier. Instead, he directed his rage at Demandred. It was all the bloody Chosen’s fault, after all. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t kidnapped Neya. Whether or not the bloody man surrendered, M’Hael would see Demandred dead. Even if it meant hurting Neya. She would be better off without him. Peace, _everyone_ would be better off without him.

"I'm fine," he assured her. He wasn’t, not by a long shot. She could tell, too, but she didn’t comment on the obvious lie. "Neya, do you really believe it’s a good idea to send both Demandred and myself to Shara, if he decides to return to the Light?” _Like that will ever happen_. It took some effort not to scoff aloud. Just saying the man’s name was enough to make his fists clench. “I can't help but think the man isn't particularly fond of me," he added wryly. Not to mention that he, M'Hael – or should he call himself Mazrim now? Yes. Neya would prefer that, certainly – hated the other man, if only for ever touching Neya.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it's a grand idea." She sounded so serious. Didn’t she realise that she would have to choose one of them, at some point? And that the loser – in Mazrim’s version of things, Demandred – would likely make their life a living hell? "Shara's vast, you know. Almost as vast as all the Westlands together. You could both live there for hundreds of years and never once run into each other.” Yes, she’d mentioned that before. But if they were forced to live within the same borders, even vast as Shara was… _Especially_ if Demandred was king and believed he could order Mazrim about… He just couldn’t fathom this insane idea of hers. What did she expect would happen? That the three of them would live happily ever after? “But that's beside the point. I have projects for the land, and for you, if you're interested."

"Projects?" he repeated with a frown. Peace, she’d really given this a lot of thought. Why, and most importantly, _when_? She’d believed Mazrim dead until an hour ago! How long had she been planning this? "What kind of projects?"

"I won't go into details now, but we have plans to improve life in Shara. And you're just the man to help with that," she told him earnestly.

"We? As in…you and Demandred?" Neya nodded. Her cheeks didn’t colour, but what Mazrim sensed through the bond felt like she was blushing internally. "What have you been up to all this time, exactly?" Judging from the way she'd addressed Demandred earlier – even if he hadn't understood the words – Mazrim could tell that she was holding something back from him. Their relationship seemed even more intricate than he'd initially assumed. It was a wonder that no one else had picked up on it.

The bond sent out a wave of sudden apprehension. Neya lowered her eyes, biting her lower lip. Burn it all, was it somehow even worse than Mazrim suspected? It seemed impossible, and yet… "I've been crowned Queen of Shara," she muttered eventually.

He could only stare at her. His mind couldn’t process the words – and what they implied. "You're Queen." His voice was completely flat. Neya nodded slowly. "Demandred made you his Queen," he repeated. He was having trouble thinking clearly. Neya closed her eyes, obviously bracing herself. "But if he's the King, and you're the Queen…" Mazrim trailed off. No, she couldn't mean…

"We're married, yes," she told him softly, finally looking up at him. His heart skipped several beats. Mazrim wasn’t sure if it’d started beating again, or if it ever would. The blood must have drained from his face, judging by Neya’s crestfallen expression.

What was the point of going to Shara with her if he couldn't  _be_  with her? She was the only person in the world he cared about, and now she belonged to another man. Not just _any_ other man, either. Mazrim felt like the very fabric of the world was dissolving around him. Neya – the only woman he’d ever loved – was _married_ to bloody _Demandred_.

Neya’s face turned ashen, probably in response to what she was receiving through the bond. She swallowed audibly. "Mazrim, I know how it sounds, but there's more than that." She put a hand on her belly. He'd caught her doing that a few times already. Was she pregnant, on top of everything else? Rotten Trolloc balls!

Obviously, Neya had picked up that particular thought through the bond, or maybe it was plain on his face. "It's not his. It's yours, Mazrim," she said quietly.

Mazrim didn’t realise he’d sat down on the ground – or fallen on his arse, more accurately – until Neya knelt beside him, her face drawn.

He stared at the muddy ground in astonishment for a moment before he found his voice again. "How do you know it's mine?" he asked her, perhaps more harshly than he'd intended. He couldn’t seem to control it. The burning rage he felt toward Demandred was threatening to overwhelm him.

It wasn’t enough for Demandred to take away Mazrim’s woman, no. He’d stolen his child, too.

It felt as if the taint had returned, twisting his guts, tearing at his brains. It was all Mazrim could do not to lash out, to destroy everything in sight, to balefire the entire world. If Neya hadn’t been sitting so close to him, with her hand on her abdomen…he didn’t think he could have stopped it.

She placed a soothing hand on his arm, obviously worried. Mazrim wondered how his current state of mind translated through the bond. Would it drive her insane too, if he succumbed to the madness? That thought alone was enough to startle him back to sanity – or what passed for it, in Mazrim’s head. "It couldn’t possibly be anyone else's, Mazrim.” Her eyes took on a dark cast. “Or do you believe I was bedding someone else when I lived at the Black Tower?" she demanded dangerously.

The thought had never even occurred to him. "I know you weren't," he said. "I'm just… Neya, it's a lot to take in. I don't know how I feel right now." Even less so than usual.

"I know, I'm sorry," Neya said more gently. "Burn me, I wish I could just…" She trailed off, pointing to Mazrim’s forehead, then shook her head in frustration. She was desperate to Heal him. That was understandable; bonded as they were, it couldn’t be easy for her. Why had she declined to let him sever the bloody thing when she’d had the chance? At least she wouldn’t have to deal with Mazrim’s chaotic mind, on top of everything else she was obviously worrying about.

Gingerly, hesitantly, Mazrim placed his hand over hers. Light, how he'd missed her. His fingers trembled slightly at the touch of her soft skin underneath his calloused hands. "I know. But al'Vere is right. You have to save up for the actual fighting," he told her. "If I were to lose an arm or a leg in the battle, I would like to know you were not too exhausted to attend to that," he went on, attempting a lighter tone.

"Like I would let that happen," she told him fiercely.

He grinned at her. Then he remembered what they'd been talking about. Peace, she was carrying his child! He felt the smile slide off his face. "What a flaming mess," he muttered.

"That's one word for it," Neya agreed. "Mazrim, did you send the girls away after I left?"

Burn him, he’d almost forgotten about Karys and Ilawen! "No, of course not. Not away from the Tower, anyway. I told them to stay away from _me_ and my…Asha'man.” His mindless puppets. The men he’d ruthlessly murdered. “I told them to keep close to Logain's men. Well, they weren't _his_ men back then, but they were clearly not mine. I suppose they were still yours. I figured they'd be safer that way. I hoped they would be. Mishraile and Lothbrok sort of adopted them, eventually. They seemed happy enough about that. I haven't seen them since I was…deposed." Suddenly, he felt very tired. He sought Neya’s gaze. "Neya, I…I Turned Vinchova. I _killed_ him. I killed Nalaam, too. And Kajima. And–"

She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. "I know, alright? You've done horrible things, and I know you feel awful about it. I can _feel_ it, Mazrim. And when I'm finally allowed to Heal you... I suspect your guilt will only get worse. We can talk about it later, we _will_ talk about it, but not now. I can't talk about this now. Please?"

"Alright," he agreed. There may not be a _later_ , but it didn’t matter. Neya was here, now. They were together, perhaps for the last time. Mazrim had to make it count, without adding to her pile of concerns.

Casting about for a lighter topic of conversation, his eyes fell on Asmodean, who was studying them, although he stood too far to hear anything. How had Mazrim not realised…? Well, to be fair, the demoted Chosen didn’t exactly _look_ like one of the Chosen. Though he was certainly obnoxious enough to rival even Demandred.

"Were you…involved with him?" Mazrim asked curiously. The bond gave off a wave of annoyance. "I mean," he added hastily, "I have no idea what happened to you before we met. I assumed you'd just arrived from that  _ta'veren_ -breeding village of yours." He knew better, now. When he’d had his spies follow Neya's trail, after Demandred took her, Mazrim had expected news of her current whereabouts. Instead, he’d received confusing information about where she’d been before her arrival at the Tower – Cairhien, Caemlyn, even the bloody Waste. But Mazrim had no idea what she’d been doing there.

"I'd love to discuss my previous romantic relationships with you, but can we maybe do that another time? It's hardly the time or place," she said dryly.

"So it  _was_  a romantic relationship," he murmured. _Another one_. Neya rolled her eyes irritably.

"What about you?" she asked abruptly. Mazrim frowned, perplexed.  _What about me?_  "Have you been with someone else while I was away?" she asked with false detachment.

That made him laugh, though the sound was completely devoid of mirth. It had a near-hysterical quality to it. "Why, yes, of course. So many people, you wouldn't believe," he told her sarcastically. She gave him a hurt look. "Honestly, what do you think?" he demanded, more roughly this time. "Just because you bed every man you encounter, that doesn't mean I do the same." The words were barely out of his mouth that he wished he could swallow them back.

He expected her to be angry, but she just looked sad; he could feel it through the bond. That was even worse. Anger, he could deal with. But he couldn’t stand to see her like this, especially knowing it was his fault. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t know what to do. What to _think_. How do you feel about me, Neya? About Demandred? How do we…?” He trailed off, unsure what to say. _Where do we go from here?_

"The situation is what it is, Mazrim. I'm  _ta'veren_. It can't be helped. I know how it looks, but we'll work something out. Somehow, we'll work it out," she repeated softly, almost to herself.

* * *

Bao closed his eyes once again as Shendla retreated inside the tent. He sought the Oneness, but for the first time in his life, it eluded him. Darkness within! How could they do this to him? How dare they betray him? He had trusted them, allowed them to see the part of him he never revealed to anyone else.

He could only blame himself. ‘ _You cannot trust anyone’_ : that had been Elan Morin's motto, even before the Collapse. Bao, however, firmly believed that greatness could only be achieved if you trusted the right people, if you handpicked your loyal followers. That was why he had eventually decided to settle down in Shara, despite its off-centre position. These Westlanders were backstabbers, only aiming at personal gain, lost in their manoeuvres as they attempted to play  _Daes Dae'mar_. In short, they were useless. Of course, the female Ayyad were not much better, but they were still more sensible and practical than these so-called Aes Sedai. They reminded Bao of his contemporaries of the past age: hypocritical, obsessed with their status, always competing to find out who was the most renowned of them all.

Everyone in those days had been so certain, or perhaps they had convinced themselves, that they lived in a flawless world. Bao had seen the truth of that during his many travels. In the end, Elan had had the right of it. Bao had thought him mad even then, but he’d been right all along. They had needed the change brought on by the drilling of the Dark One's–

Bao opened his eyes, startled. He had not used that phrase since he had pledged his soul to the Shadow. Or had he? He could not remember. Just the previous day, he had thought of himself as one of the Forsaken. Perhaps it had been a mistake to allow Neya to utter these terms so freely after all.

His mind kept wandering; it seemed unable to focus on anything, or instead focused on every little unimportant thing. There would be no meditating for him today, not until he made up his mind. He stood up and found Mintel sitting cross-legged in a nearby tent. The  _abrishi_  was simply resting, however, not meditating. His one good eye opened the moment Bao lifted the tent flap. "Trouble, my son?" he enquired.

"Were you aware of their ploy, old man?"

"If you are referring to the fact that your wife decided to cast her lot with the other side, you will forgive me if I do not sympathise. Even a blind man would have seen it coming," he said with a chuckle.

"So you did know," Bao muttered. Blast the man! He thought it was  _amusing_?

"Why does it upset you so much, son? It makes perfect sense to me, to everyone here. Only you fail to see it. It was meant to be," Mintel said. "The Prophecies demand that you save us, and the Tapestry has brought you the person you needed to accomplish your destiny."

"Don't give me that nonsense, old man!" Bao roared. He rarely let his anger get the better of him, but it seemed that everyone had decided to try his patience this day. "I don't care for your Prophecies, for Kongsidi, for all that biased drivel of yours! Don't you see? I have been using you, Mintel. I told you that before, I told Shendla, but you wouldn't heed my words. Heed them now! I have come here for one purpose: to destroy the one who calls himself the Dragon Reborn. Nothing else – nothing! – matters to me."

Mintel looked at him impassively as he spoke. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but he said nothing. That infuriated Bao even more. "Do you have any idea what she's asking of me? I have dedicated the last years of my life to make this happen. I abnegated  _everything_  for this very purpose. And she wants me to forsake it all? I will  _not_  give up now, not for her, not for anyone," he went on scornfully. "I will never surrender to Lews Therin."

"And what about what  _Neya_  gave up for you?" Mintel asked quietly. "Do you think it cost her nothing? How do you believe she felt at placing her life in your hands, when she knew exactly who you were, what you would do, what you would ask of her?" Bao opened his mouth to retort, but Mintel raised a hand. "You act like a child. Think, son, think! Is this really all you want from life? To exact petty vengeance for a crime you cannot even define, and which was perpetrated by a dead madman? What do you hope to find, when you finally accomplish this, Bao? Whatever it may be, I can assure you, you will not attain it. Vengeance will not quench your anger, it will only inflame it. There is a saying: 'Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.'" The  _abrishi_  directed a stern look at Bao. "You have a responsibility toward us, and toward Neya – our queen, your _wife_. You have committed yourself to her in the most sacred of manners." Abruptly, he stood up. It always amazed Bao how spry the old man was, despite his advanced age. "I trust you will make the right decision. I have faith in you, son." Before Bao could think of something to say, Mintel lifted the tent flap and sauntered away.

He had to clear his mind. Usually, he would seek Neya's help for that, but given the circumstances…

Bao made his way to the female Ayyad's camp instead. Saseko would be there.

* * *

The Two Rivers, modern-day Manetheren, certainly produced fine women, Lan reflected as he listened to Egwene discuss battle plans with Mat. How they had changed since Moiraine and he found them in Emond's Field, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

And Neya… She reminded him of his wife. Nynaeve was so incredibly caring, though she sometimes went to great lengths to hide it.

Lan was uncertain, to say the least, about Demandred's potential defection from the Shadow, but if it could be done… He had been considering taking on the man himself ever since Demandred had started calling out for al'Thor to face him, but if it could be avoided altogether, Lan would gladly accept it.

He might not like it, but he recognised himself in the Forsaken. Lan knew what it was to be consumed with something so completely that you would put aside everything and everyone else. He would forever be grateful to Nynaeve for showing him that he was still capable of feeling, of caring. Well, for that amongst other things.

Could Neya truly have managed to accomplish the same feat with Demandred? Could she have broken through the Forsaken's armoured shell and rekindled a fire in his cold, long-unused heart?

If anyone could believe it possible, it was Lan.


	79. Our choices show what we truly are

Neya was sitting on an upturned crate outside the command tent when she saw Mat approach. She raised a hand before he could speak. "I know, I know, the hour's up." She sighed. "Fine. I suppose I was wrong.” As wrong as Shendla had been. Why had the bloody woman given her false hopes? It was obvious that Bao felt betrayed, that Neya had effectively destroyed what trust her husband had placed in her. And Neya hadn’t even had the chance to mention that Rand wasn’t here – the one thing that might have convinced Bao that everything he had done, and everything he was doing now, was in vain. “Can we at least arrange for my people to come over?” Shendla was beyond her help, but perhaps she could still save Kal, Torn and Abe. And anyone who would follow their Queen to the Light. “If Bao believes that they were in on this, he will destroy them. If he hasn't already," she added reluctantly. Light, let them be safe. If Bao hurt them because of her, Neya would never forgive herself.

Mat hesitated, idly scratching his eyepatch. "Neya, it's too risky. We can't open a bloody gateway in the middle of Demandred's camp just to get a few people out. He’ll expect it."

Neya narrowed her eyes at him. "Mat, I'm talking about  _hundreds_ of people, including channelers! That's got to count for something," she told him sharply. "I can't just abandon them!" She took a slow, calming breath. "Look. One of the male channelers is almost as strong as…Demandred, and several of the women are a match for Egwene. The mercenary who leads the foot soldiers, Torn, he can help with the planning, he's got experience. He knows how the Sharans fight."

"That's all well and good, but Demandred had plenty of time to set a flaming trap in case we decided to do just that," Mat grumbled. "The odds are not in our favour, alright? If we were going to do this, we should have done it sooner, right after your little chat with him, or even at the same time, while he was distracted. It's too late, now. Your friends…they’re probably dead already, Neya." He gave her an apologetic look.

She would not relent. They couldn’t be dead. She had to believe that. Otherwise it would break her, and render her completely useless in the battle to come. "It will only take a few minutes. We open a gateway, tell them to gather everyone quickly, and get them out." Neya stood up and gripped her brother’s arm. "Mat, I made a promise to these people. You don't have to help, just let me do it. Jasin or Mazrim can open the gateway, and–"

Mat was shaking his head. "Blood and ashes, you're not listening to me! It doesn't matter who opens the flaming gateway, Neya. If Demandred set any sort of trap, it could affect all of us, no matter how long it remains open or where you do it. Who knows what the bloody son of a goat is capable of? I'm telling you, we can't risk it. In any case," he went on, "Egwene knew you were going to ask, and she said no. I'm sorry." There was an obduracy in his voice that Neya knew only too well. Her brother was as stubborn as any Two Rivers man, possibly more. "Now don't do anything stupid, alright? I have enough to worry about. I will have you bound and kept under guard if I have to," he threatened her, though not unkindly. Neya nodded tersely, lips pursed, and Mat stalked away.

Light, what was she going to do? She closed her eyes. Maybe she should seek the Oneness, like Bao did. It might help, but she doubted that she could focus long enough to achieve a meditative state. She felt restless, _useless_. "Where do you want that gateway opened?" she heard Jasin ask.

Neya opened her eyes and turned to face him with a heavy sigh. "We can't. Too dangerous," she muttered wistfully. She should have planned this better, she should have made some kind of arrangement with Kalayaan in case she couldn't contact him. Burn her for a woolheaded fool!

"Since when do you listen when people tell you to do something?" he taunted her.

"Jay, now is not a good time to be your annoying self," she warned him. "I've made a mess of things, there's no need to rub salt into the wound."

Mazrim joined them, looking completely at ease despite the retinue of Logain's men that shadowed him and held his shield. "What do we do now?"

"There's nothing to be done. It's over." Neya bit her lower lip in frustration. "At least you're here. That's something, I suppose."

"You're too kind," Mazrim said dryly.

It dawned on Neya that her choice of words left a lot to be desired. Burn her! Had her brain stopped functioning? “Mazrim, that’s not what I-"

He raised a hand. "I know. But Neya, we did warn you," he went on more softly. "Demandred is beyond saving."

He took a step closer to her, but one of his guards – was that Jonneth? The boy had grown since Neya had last seen him – caught his arm. "Keep your distance, traitor," he growled.

Mazrim rolled his eyes in annoyance, but he stopped where he was. He was about to speak when a gateway sprang open right next to him. A foot to the left, and Mazrim would have been sliced in two.

There was a commotion as the guards shouted for back-up and everyone came rushing out of the command tent.

Bao took it all in impassively. He was alone, but he was holding  _D'jedt_.

Neya’s heart started pounding wildly in her chest. Thank the Light, he had come. Well, she couldn't be certain that he wasn't here to annihilate them all, but it was good to see him anyway.

Egwene was the first to speak. It seemed that she had linked with the other female channelers available, except Neya herself, of course. She was still shielded, but it was one of Logain’s men who held her shield now. "Have you come to surrender, Demandred?" Neya winced. Whatever Bao's intentions at this point, calling it ‘surrender’ was one of the worst things the Amyrlin could have done.

Bao didn't react to it, however. "What are the terms?" he asked Egwene impassively. He stood utterly still as Egwene spoke, his face blank. Shendla joined him while the Amyrlin explained the terms they had devised, looking as stoic as Bao himself. The Wyld remained silent for a good minute after Egwene was done. "And how do you intend to sever my link to the…Great Lord, may I ask?" The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but Neya heard it. Apparently, he had become aware of his lapses.

Egwene looked around for Jasin and gestured for him to come closer. "I'll deal with that," the gleeman announced.

"You?" Bao said the word like a curse, and he narrowed his eyes, an impressive display of emotion for him.

"Me," Jay answered with a grin. Neya knew that Bao despised every single one of the Forsaken, with the possible exception of Elan, but he held Asmodean in utter contempt. According to Bao, he was a vain, useless coward. He’d never understood how the man became one of the Chosen in the first place. "You must know what happened to me in Rhuidean," Jasin went on, arching an eyebrow. Bao made no reply. "Well, I know how al'Thor did it. We just removed M'Hael's connection, in fact," he added slyly, cocking his head in Mazrim's direction.

Bao's eyes widened as he glanced toward the Saldaean, who waved at him with mock cheerfulness. Her husband must have been more upset than she'd assumed, if he'd missed the episode where Mazrim had decided to return to the Light. His face quickly became stony once more, however. "Is Moridin there as well?" he asked sourly.

Egwene shook her head. "We believe he's at Shayol Ghul, with the Dragon Reborn."

Bao’s shoulders tensed visibly, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on Sakarnen. "If al'Thor really is at Shayol Ghul, who has command of your armies? Your Great Captains were Compelled, all of them." Neya frowned. Bao never used Compulsion unless he had to; had he been working together with Moghedien or Graendal?

Mat stepped forward gingerly. "That would be me," he mumbled. "Mat Cauthon. Pleasure to meet you," he added wryly.

"Cauthon?" Bao repeated with a faint scowl, although it was gone in an instant. "The Gambler. I see," he said softly. "I must make a few amendments to the terms you are proposing," he told Egwene.

Neya could tell that he had already decided to join them, but she had a feeling that he would never forgive her for her betrayal. She had known that acting behind his back meant losing his trust, at the very least, but the fact that he was ignoring her entirely hurt more than she had imagined. This was the price to pay for a chance at victory. It was her sacrifice, willingly made, for the common good. And it was more painful than any sacrifice demanding that her blood be shed.

"Which points do you wish to debate?" the Amyrlin demanded. "I must warn you, the severing of your link to the Dark One is non-negotiable," she said coolly, "and it will be done the moment you step through that gateway."

"Evidently," Bao retorted matter-of-factly. He looked every bit the regal king, despite his clunky armour. "But I want to read that treaty you mentioned, that Dragon's Peace, before I sign it, and I will–"

Logain scoffed loudly. "We don't have time for this, Forsaken. You can look it over when the battle is done, provided that you still live. Get to the point, man."

"You will not interrupt me again," Bao said dangerously, glaring at him. Logain returned his gaze without blinking. The younger man was brave, Neya noted, if not always sensible. "I cannot agree to sign the document unless I have had the chance to peruse it, Mother," Bao went on calmly, addressing Egwene once more. It still amazed Neya sometimes, how polite he was, even toward his detractors. It had never failed to stun Galbrait, back in Shara.

"That is acceptable. You will be given a copy after the battle. The signing is not optional, but compromises might be worked out, should the need arise," Egwene told him cautiously. “Shara was not included in the original document, after all.”

"Furthermore, I cannot agree to be exiled to Shara indefinitely," Bao continued.

That caused an uproar. Everyone started talking at once. Egwene had to call out for silence twice, her voice amplified with _saidar_ , before they complied. She turned to Bao. "It is a reasonable condition, I should think. I understand that you have declared yourself King of Shara?" she went on, arching an eyebrow questioningly. Bao nodded. "Then why would you refuse to live out your days there? Surely you do not anticipate to be welcomed in the Western lands, even if you return to the Light now. The people will expect us to condemn and execute you, no matter what amends you make. Considering that, exile is an extremely mild measure," Egwene explained. "Or are you afraid of what your own people might do, when you return? I seem to understand that they are not too happy at having to side with the Trollocs," she remarked shrewdly.

Bao gave her a level look. "Not at all," he replied truthfully. "I simply believe that shutting us out would be a mistake in the long run. I intend to open Shara to commerce and Traveling in the near future, and I think it would benefit everyone if we could find common ground in this matter. I do have a remarkable number of years yet to live. If you confine me in Shara and refuse any contact or trade because of that, everyone will lose something in the bargain." That was certainly not what they had expected. They were all staring at him in bewilderment. "I assume that this…Dragon's Peace is a treaty designed to keep everyone out of their neighbours' land and, as its name seems to indicate, to keep the peace between all nations involved," he continued. When no one contradicted him, he went on. "I do not intend to claim any land or to wage war unless provoked. Shara is quite large, and there is more work to be done there than I could hope to achieve in a lifetime, I assure you." He trailed off, waiting for someone to dispute him.

Egwene shook her head slightly. "We cannot be held responsible if something untoward were to happen to you when you visit the Western lands," she said quietly. Everyone turned to look at her incredulously, Neya included. Was she really going to agree to this? The golden-haired woman – Elayne Trakand, Mazrim had called her; apparently, she was Queen of Andor – seemed about to choke in outrage.

"Of course," Bao said in acknowledgement.

Egwene adjusted her striped shawl. "Very well. But I must insist that we move on. Time is of the essence. Do you agree to the terms as they were presented to you?" Bao nodded curtly. Neya noticed that Shendla was smiling faintly. Burn the bloody woman! Had she known all along that this was going to happen? Could she not have reassured Neya earlier, or told her what to do? "Then by my hope of salvation and rebirth," the Amyrlin intoned for the second time that day, "I swear in the name of all who walk in the Light that the terms will be observed, if you fulfil your end of the bargain. You will be shielded until your connection to the Dark One is severed," she added. Bao nodded again. "Then you may come through," Egwene told him solemnly. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

Bao whispered something to Shendla then took three steps forward, passing through the gateway. He stopped beside Neya, but he didn't glance at her. Egwene shielded him, and the gateway vanished. The Amyrlin gestured for Jasin to do what he was supposed to do. He smirked at Bao, who simply gazed at him expectantly. Neya couldn't see what he was doing, but she saw Jay's eyes widen in astonishment when Bao didn't even flinch. Everyone was silent for a moment.

"Is it done?" Egwene asked eventually, frowning at Jasin.

"I… It’s… Yes, Mother. I cut the…wire thingy, just like I did with Taim." He looked baffled. Neya hid a smile behind her hand.

"He did, Mother," Logain confirmed. "He did the exact same thing he did before." Mazrim nodded in agreement, which caused Logain to grimace.

"Then it is done. Barid Bel Medar, we welcome you back to the Light," the Amyrlin said formally.

Bao acknowledged her words with a nod. "We should make plans to accommodate my armies," he said without preamble.

"Indeed. Please, join us in the tent to discuss the new battle plans with Marshal-General Cauthon."  _Marshal-General?_  Neya wondered. Was that Mat's actual title, or was Egwene just trying to impress Bao? Most likely the second option. "Who do you suppose will be taking command of the Shadow's armies, now that you are here?"

Bao thought that over. "It will be either Moghedien or Hessalam, if Moridin does not come back," he replied. "When I last heard from her, Hessalam was on the front at Shayol Ghul. I do not know where Moghedien is hiding at the moment."

"Hessalam?" Egwene repeated with a frown. "It means…'without forgiveness', doesn't it?"

"Graendal," Bao explained. "She was punished for her failures and given a new body. You should be able to recognise her easily enough. She is the ugliest woman you could imagine."

Egwene nodded in acknowledgment as Neya marvelled at the Dark One’s twisted sense of humour. "Master Taim, Master Natael," the Amyrlin went on, turning to each man as she said their name, "you will join us as well. You too, Neya." Without waiting for an answer, she marched back inside the tent, everyone else trailing after her.


	80. No plan of battle survives first contact

Natael waited for Neya and Taim to catch up with him before following the Amyrlin inside the command tent. None of them spoke. Neya was tense, with good reason. Demandred had completely ignored her. If she truly cared for him, she must be feeling a combination of relief and dread. Betraying Demandred always had dire consequences. When Barid Bel Medar decided that Lews Therin had betrayed him, by refusing to hand over the command of the armies of the Light, he had turned to the Shadow. Was Neya’s betrayal responsible for the man returning to the Light? Natael still couldn't believe that his former associate had taken the deal. Of all the Chosen, he had been sure that Demandred was the less likely to renounce the Shadow, especially now.

Inside the tent, Cauthon was already looking at the battlefield map and talking with Demandred – or arguing, if the boy’s erratic gesticulations were any indication.

"What am I supposed to help with?" Neya muttered grumpily. "I don't know anything about war."

"They probably just want you to confirm or infirm whatever Demandred tells them," Taim whispered back as they made their way toward the assembled generals and rulers. "They don't trust him, no more than they trust me." The Saldaean’s features had taken on a dark cast the moment Demandred had opened the gateway. He’d likely hoped that the Chosen would turn down the Amyrlin’s proposition, and to get Neya all to himself, by the looks of it. He followed her around like a lost puppy, now that the Light had accepted him back.

"And you really think they trust _me_?" Neya asked with a snort. Taim shrugged.

Cauthon looked up when his sister walked in. "Neya, how many soldiers are there in the Sharan army, exactly? Do you know?"

Obviously, he had already asked Demandred the same question, but the older man didn't say anything, though he did purse his lips slightly. He was as good as his word, Demandred was, and he disliked people doubting him. Neya was looking at Demandred, but he kept ignoring her. She exhaled slowly. "A handful of male channelers, about four hundred female channelers and I'm guessing about six or seven thousand soldiers of all sorts."

Cauthon frowned dubiously. Had Demandred lied, or was Neya simply wrong? To be fair, the Sharans must have suffered some losses since they’d arrived in the West, losses she might not be aware of. "Can you be a little more specific? How many archers, horsemen, foot soldiers?" Cauthon prompted her impatiently.

"I have no idea, Mat. I know I should have gathered better intelligence, but I guess I botched that part, too," she said bitterly. "In any case, he knows the exact numbers," she added, gesturing toward Demandred. "He has no reason to lie to you."

Cauthon eyed her doubtfully. "As you say. How soon do you think your replacement will show up, whoever it is?" he asked Demandred.

"We must assume that she is already in place, whether it is Hessalam or Moghedien," Demandred replied calmly. "We need to act fast. I must relocate my army, away from the Shadowspawn, and M'Hael's followers must be dealt with as soon as possible, before they can be organised to mount an assault."

“It’s a shame that melting their brains didn’t render them blindly loyal to Taim, only to the Shadow,” Mat grumbled.

Taim stiffened and looked like he was about to speak, but thought better of it. Logain’s expression soured, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. Natael expected Neya to scold her brother for his tactless words, but she was studying the map attentively, a small frown creasing her brow. "Given the current disposition, aren't you afraid that Lilen might play the same trick she used in M'Jinn in the second year of the War of Power?" she asked in a low voice. Everyone stared at her, and she seemed to suddenly realise that she'd spoken aloud.

How could she possibly know about that? Blast, was she hearing the voices of dead madmen in her head, too? Or had Elan told her about it? Blushing slightly, Neya shrugged in embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Moghedien had nothing to do with what happened in M'Jinn," Demandred declared without a glance at Neya. "It was another of the…Forsaken. Dhaemon."

Neya frowned at him. "No, I'm fairly certain it was Lilen. Elan claimed that that Dhaemon fellow died in a skirmish earlier the same day, and he ordered Lilen to take over his forces. She might have disguised herself as the dead man, I suppose. Apparently, she does that a lot." Demandred finally turned his head sideways to stare at her. For that matter, everyone else did. Natael was about to speak, to tell them that she was in fact correct, but al'Thor's gorgeous half-brother forestalled him.

"Elan?" Galad Damodred repeated roughly. It was a wonder that Graendal hadn’t taken _him_ for her pet collection… Especially now that he led the Whitecloaks. "Isn't that the name that the Forsaken Ishamael abandoned when he pledged his soul to the Dark One? Elan Morin Tedronai?"

Neya appeared taken aback for a moment, but she recovered quickly. "It is. It was. I…um, spent some time with him," she admitted, her cheeks colouring again. "Before I came to Rhuidean, I was his…captive."

"Light have mercy!" Damodred hissed. "Are we really going to listen to this woman? She has been around the Forsaken for the Creator alone knows how long! Mother," he said, turning to the Amyrlin, "I understand that she was your friend, a long time ago, but she cannot be trusted. None of them can be trusted," he went on, indicating Demandred, Taim and even Natael himself. As if he hadn't proven his loyalty time and again! "It's a trap, I'm certain of it. An elaborate one, but I wouldn't put it past the Forsaken to imagine something so twisted," Damodred told them fervently. "They're clearly working together to undermine us."

"Galad, please, calm down," the Amyrlin said quietly. "We cannot afford _not_ to trust them. We all agreed to this," she told him sternly.

"Reluctantly," Galad retorted. "Mother, did you know about the time she spent with Ishamael? Did _anyone_ know? What about the fact that she knew who this one was," he went on, pointing at Natael, "when no one else did?” Min cleared her throat loudly, but the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light affected not to hear. “And not to be crude, but it seems clear to me that she has laid with at least some of them," he added with a contemptuous grimace.

"Hey now, you watch your tongue!" Cauthon warned him.

Neya raised a hand. "Actually, I bedded all four," she told Damodred sweetly. Cauthon's mouth fell open. In other circumstances, Natael would have laughed. "Mat knew about Ishamael," Neya went on, "and Rand knew about Ishamael _and_ Jasin – Asmodean, Natael, whatever you're calling him now. Rand sent me to the Black Tower and he brought Mazrim there himself. I also spent over a month in a cell in Lanfear's den, if you truly want to know everything. And before you ask, no, I didn't bed _her_ ," she spat out sourly. "I'm _ta'veren_ , pretty boy, and I'll wager I've been through a bloody lot more than you have in the past two years. To the Pit of Doom with your scorn and flaming righteousness!" She was panting by the time she was done. Taim placed a hand on her shoulder and murmured something inaudible to everyone else. Neya closed her eyes in an obvious attempt to regain her composure.

"It's all true," Natael put in quickly. "Al'Thor knew everything. And Min, too. It's not Neya’s fault that they chose not to tell anyone else. Give her a break, _pretty boy_ ," he added firmly when Damodred tried to retort. ‘Pretty’ was too weak a word to describe him, but references to his physique obviously bothered him, so it would do.

"Can we focus on the matter at hand? You know, the Last bloody Battle?" Cauthon enquired, clearly anxious to change the subject. "Neya, what did you mean earlier? About M'Jinn?"

"Bao can explain better than me," she replied dismissively. "He was there. Moghedien defeated him, took him by surprise, not long before he turned to the Shadow." As Bao launched into a concise explanation, Neya walked away from them and sat down on the ground. Taim imitated her and, a moment later, Natael decided to join them. As expected, no one was interested in his opinion on the strategy to adopt; he might as well rest before the fighting resumed. Surely they would want him to fight, now that they knew who he truly was? They would want him to prove himself – yet again.

When Taim saw Natael approach, he interrupted the speech he'd been making. "Do you want some water?" he asked Neya, pointedly ignoring Natael.

She smiled wanly. She looked exhausted. "Yes, some water would be great. Thank you.”

"I could do with some wine," Natael put in. Taim gave him a flat look, but he stood up. Natael grinned after him. He was the kind of person Natael liked to watch from behind. Neya chuckled softly and he returned his attention to her. "What?" he asked innocently. "I'm just looking."

"Well, you can't look at him like that," she scolded him good-naturedly. "He's mine." She said it with a smile, but Natael could tell that she was only half-joking. She seemed very possessive of the young man.

"I thought you and Demandred–"

"Yeah, well, that's not going to last, is it?" she said sharply. "Looks like I bungled everything with impressive thoroughness." Then, unexpectedly enough, she laughed softly. "Although, come to think of it, if I can manage to salvage anything from our marriage…" Natael frowned. Marriage? Demandred had _married_ her? Blood and ashes!

Neya was studying him with calculating eyes. "What?" he asked slowly. He didn’t like the mischievous gleam in her eyes. It reminded him of Cauthon’s gaze, sometimes, though he knew that they weren’t related.

"If I did manage to earn my place back at Bao's side, somehow, and you and Mazrim were to…um, keep each other company…" She trailed off, blushing furiously.

Natael stared at her, eyes narrowed. "I don't like where this is going." Was she implying what he thought she was implying? No, surely not.

"Why not? You would get along marvellously well. Besides, you and Bao will live for an approximately even number of years, just like Mazrim and I will. So, when you and Bao are both dead, we could be together," she went on with a perfectly straight face, although her cheeks were still red.

Natael gaped at her for a second before bursting out laughing. He couldn’t believe she’d just said that. Out loud. Had she gone utterly mad?

Natael was dimly aware that Taim had returned and was scowling at him. "What's wrong with him?" Taim asked dryly. "Has the taint corrupted his mind? What could possibly be so amusing at a time like this?"

"Why, me, of course." Neya grinned up at him, taking the goblet of water he was offering. Taim snorted in disbelief.

"Do you really want to know what we were talking about?" Natael asked, trying to keep his mirth contained.

Taim shrugged, but Neya shook her head emphatically, which caused Taim to frown at her. "It was nothing," she said quickly, an even brighter blush slowly creeping on her cheeks. "Hardly the time or place," she muttered. She buried her face in her goblet as best she could.

Taim looked at Natael questioningly, clearly hoping for a more explicit answer, but Natael spread his hands in apology. It truly wasn’t a good time – though he doubted there would ever be a good time to talk about _this_. Abruptly, he realised that Taim had brought him back a goblet of wine and was offering it to him hesitantly. Natael flashed him a flirtatious smile as he accepted the drink, bowing his head slightly in thanks. The Saldaean appeared mystified, but he didn’t remark upon it. He sat down close to Neya, and the two of them started talking in low voices, though Taim kept stealing glances at Natael.

It didn’t bother him to be excluded from their hushed conversation. He had just decided that Taim would be his. Not because Neya had emitted the idea – or not only because of that. There was something about the man that was simply…irresistible. Natael had never been good at resisting temptation, and Neya had practically given him her blessing to pursue the younger man. She _wanted_ him to.

Natael would gladly oblige. He liked a challenge and, judging by the look of utter adoration Taim was giving Neya, it was going to be a challenge indeed.

* * *

Shendla took a small moment to congratulate herself. It had all worked out for the best.

Mintel had joined her in Bao's tent and was sitting cross-legged on the ground. "Well, we have our orders," Shendla stated.

Mintel nodded, grinning. "I must meditate briefly, to thank Kongsidi. Then I will inform the generals of Bao’s new plans,” he offered. “Will you talk to Galbrait?" Shendla nodded in assent. The old man closed his eyes, his respiration slowing. Shendla left him to his meditation to find the leader of the Ayyad.

She had been worried when she’d realised that Bao was heading for Saseko's tent, earlier. In fact, she had followed him, blade unsheathed, ready to put an end to this foolishness right there and then. She wasn't sure if she would have killed the hussy or Bao himself, but someone would have died, that was certain. She couldn't have let him ruin everything now, especially like _that_.

She had followed him to the Ayyad's camp, but Bao had stepped out of Saseko’s tent before Shendla could reach it. He’d stalked past Shendla without a word, looking determined. Curious, Shendla had walked on and lifted the flap of the Darkfriend's tent. Saseko had jumped a foot in the air in fright and had greeted Shendla with a baleful glare. "What did he want with you, girl?" Shendla had demanded sharply.

"I don't know," Saseko had spat out. "The Wyld walked in unannounced and just…stared at me for a moment," she said, her delicate brow creased. "Then he muttered something in this…Old Tongue and stormed off. What is wrong with him?"

Shendla smiled at her, in a way that made the younger woman recoil. "Nothing is wrong with our king. Quite the opposite, in fact. Finally, he is doing the right thing." She had left the tent without another word, leaving the Darkfriend to puzzle out her meaning.

Shendla was making her way toward the Ayyad's camp once more to find Galbrait and announce the good news. There was a lot to see to while Bao settled the terms of his… Well, it wasn't surrender. The man wasn't yielding, or giving in. He was simply bending to the will of the Tapestry to fulfil his destiny, at long last, as prophesised. And now, the Last Battle could begin in earnest.

This was Shendla's last lucid thought, just before her mortal soul was forcibly wrenched out of the Tapestry, every fibre of her body dissolving into nothingness.

As the shadowed figure moved to take her place, it was as though Shendla had never existed at all.


	81. Let's not bicker and argue about who killed who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning battles and devising strategies? Not my cup of tea. Just...pretend it all makes perfect sense.

Mat frowned at Taim and Natael, who sat on the ground right next to his little sister. What did they think they were doing? Surely she didn't mean what she'd said earlier, about bedding them.  _All_  of them. That had been simple provocation on her part. It had to be. She wouldn’t _willingly_ share a Forsaken’s bed. She'd likely had no idea who Natael was, at the time.

He couldn't quite believe she was here.  _Ta'veren_  or not, all these things that kept happening to her were highly improbable – and that was coming from _him_ , Mat bloody Cauthon. First Neya had been taken by Ishamael, and she had survived that. Then she’d been captured by Lanfear and had somehow escaped with her life once again.

In Caemlyn, Mat had been furious when he'd come to announce his imminent departure and found only Natael – bloody _Asmodean_ – in the room the false gleeman had shared with his sister at the palace. The man had been lofty and snappish, practically closing the door in Mat's face, before reluctantly explaining that Neya had been sent away by Rand to oversee this new insane project of his, namely the establishment of what was now the Black Tower. The bloody Dragon Reborn had sent his baby sister to look after a bunch of raving male channelers! Mat had been ready to pull her out of there before she got herself killed, but Rand told him that it was Neya's idea and that she'd insisted. And she hadn't even bothered to let Mat know! Obviously, she’d been perfectly aware that he would try to prevent her from going. Bloody stubborn woman!

And  _then_ , as Mat arrived at Merrilor and found out about Taim's betrayal, Logain told him that Neya had disappeared months ago. _Months_! He had no clue where she was; no one from the Black Tower had been able to provide a proper explanation. Only Taim knew, they claimed.

And now this. What had she been doing in Shara all this time? It was enough for Mat to tear his hair out in frustration. Blood and flaming ashes! He had to focus on the matter at hand.

The more he listened to Demandred's explanation, the more Mat realised that his sister might be right about Moghedien's potential course of action. If the sneaky Forsaken decided to make that particular move, or if she was already working on it… They had to act quickly.

"We need to deal with the rogue Asha'man before we do anything else," Mat muttered, interrupting Demandred. The man gave him a cold stare, but didn't speak. "If Moghedien or What's-Her-Name manage to organise them before we destroy them, we might still be in trouble. Do you know who's in charge of the Black Ajah?"

"We have to get Atal out of there before we attack, though," Neya called out before Demandred could answer. Who in the Pit of Doom was Atal?

"That's already been dealt with," Taim replied. "I told him – ordered him – to follow Logain. Weeks ago."

The Ghealdanin nodded in confirmation. “He got me out of the bloody dungeons, with Androl and the others.”

"Good," Neya said. "Mat, I'd rather not fight against the Black Tower channelers, if it's all the same to you. I know these men. Even if they're not particularly good ones, I'd rather not have to kill them. As for the Turned…" She trailed off, glancing at Taim, who wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. What was she going on about? Did she seriously believe that Mat was going to send her into bloody battle?

"You cannot join the battle," Demandred cut in sharply, without looking at her. Well, at least they agreed on _that_.

Neya gave the Forsaken a hard look and appeared ready to chew the man off, but Mat nodded hastily. "He's right, you know. You're our best Healer, we can't afford to lose you. We have to keep you safe, and that means you're staying behind." Neya shifted her wrathful gaze toward him, but he wouldn't budge. She could be bloody stubborn, but so could he. “I won’t send you to Mayene, but you have to stay out of the battlefield, Neya.”

Finally she nodded, although reluctantly. "Fine. I guess I should gather the Healers from the Ayyad camp and set up an emergency tent somewhere." She stood up, dusting off her brightly-coloured blouse, though it looked impeccable. It showed too much cleavage, in Mat’s opinion. He would have a word or two about Neya’s choice of clothes, when this was all over. And about her choice of men, while he was at it. "I'll get Taimaka. She can help with that."

"No," Demandred said firmly.

"Blood and ashes, Bao, are you going to argue over everything I say?" Neya retorted crisply. "She's as incompetent as I am with offensive weaves. She'll be more useful here, with me!"

"Neya…” Demandred took a deep breath. “Taimaka’s dead," he muttered.

Neya's eyes widened. Demandred didn't elaborate, but he glanced briefly in Egwene's direction. There’d been a skirmish earlier, between the Green Aes Sedai and some of the Sharan female channelers.  _Burn my eye, we can't afford that, not now!_   _There's no bloody time to lose!_

An awkward silence fell inside the tent.

* * *

Mazrim practically jumped to his feet at the sudden stab of grief that echoed inside the bond. Astonishingly, Neya's face was blank. It seemed that she had learned a few tricks from Demandred during her time in Shara. Or maybe she was struck numb by the loss of her friend. At least, Mazrim assumed that the dead woman had been a friend. He wouldn't put it past Neya to feel devastated by the death of someone she'd barely known. She truly cared too much about everything and everyone.

She was looking at the Amyrlin, who spread her hands helplessly. "Neya…" she began, obviously at a loss for words.

"No, I know," Neya said flatly. "I know." She fell silent once more.

"Most of our Healers were killed, but you could bring the male Ayyad over," Demandred told her quietly. How could the man let that happen? Healers were always kept out of the fighting. And he was supposed to be such a grand general! "They are too few to be of use in battle anyway, if I am not allowed to link with them in a full circle. I will just keep Abrazo around."  _Does he_ ever _use contractions?_  Mazrim wondered. It was oddly annoying. He was so bloody formal and rigid. How could Neya have fallen for him? The man couldn't even smile, for crying out loud!

"If I'm left alone with them, it won't be much use," Neya told him bitterly. "I can only link with one of them at a time."

"We could send some of the remaining Yellows to help. With them, you could expand the circle at need," the Amyrlin offered.

Neya nodded decisively. "Let's do that," she said firmly. "I'll go find Kalayaan." Kalayaan? Now who was  _that_? Peace, let it not be yet another lover. Mazrim was having enough difficulties refraining from punching Demandred, when he was not considering blasting him with pure Fire. As for Asmodean... Well, that was different. Whatever their relationship, it had happened before Mazrim met Neya.

He started to follow as Neya walked out of the tent, but Logain called him back. "You stay right here, traitor. There's no evading the fighting for _you_. You're not essential enough to be left behind," he added with a sardonic smirk.

Well, he hadn't expected to be. With a last glance toward Neya, Mazrim joined the others at the map table.

* * *

Logain sneered at Taim. Had he really thought that they would let him stay behind with his precious Neya? The man truly was insane. Maybe they should have taken the time to Heal him, if the girl knew how. Taim had been dangerous enough when he was still sane – when Logain had _thought_ him sane – but if he added the unpredictability factor to it, the bloody M’Hael could get out of control at any moment.

And Logain wasn't even taking Demandred and Asmodean into account. Light! Three Forsaken fighting on their side. If Taim could be counted as one, so short had his performance been.

How could al'Vere and Cauthon trust them with anything? They should be shielded and kept under guard, the whole lot of them, Neya included. Or better yet, gentled and executed. How could anyone agree to such terms? None of them deserved to live, let alone walk free. Well, maybe the girl could be spared; after all, it wasn't her fault that she'd been captured, brainwashed and otherwise subjected to her  _ta'veren_  nature – which at least explained why she glowed like that.

There was nothing Logain could do about the unfairness of it all, however. He wasn't in charge, and a good thing, too. Let the others deal with the wagonload of troubles those four would no doubt provide in the future – if they survived the battle. If anyone survived.

All Logain cared about now was to know who would wield the  _sa'angreal_ that Demandred had in his possession. Logain had felt it earlier, a power beyond his imagination. Surely the al'Vere girl wouldn't allow Demandred to retain the artefact, even under supervision. Logain was the most obvious choice: he was the only male channeler strong enough to wield it, the only trustworthy one, anyway.

Eventually, since no one seemed to be bringing it up, he decided to broach the topic, as subtly as he could. "Who will take care of the rogue Asha'man? Will you send all our channelers against them, even our latest acquisitions?" he asked Cauthon.

"Of course not. That'd be a flaming waste of resources," the commander of the forces of the Light replied colourfully. "We'll send your men and some of the Aes Sedai. The others can get started on the other Dreadlords. Plenty of those to go around, apparently," he muttered sourly.

Before Logain could ask about the  _sa'angreal_ , Demandred spoke. He had a soft, quiet voice, but it was commanding nonetheless. "Would it not be better to ally some of my people to some of yours? I expected that you would want to keep an eye on us." Cauthon looked up at him. "We could pair the female Ayyad with your untainted Asha'man, since they are so few," he went on, "and the...Aes Sedai with M'Hael, Nessosin and myself, as well as another powerful male channeler from my own army."

"Who's Nessosin?" Cauthon asked with a scowl. Light, but the man could be dense. Who in the Pit of Doom had put  _him_  in charge of all their armies?

"That would be me, my Prince," Asmodean replied with a smirk.

Cauthon eyed him suspiciously, as if wondering if he was being made fun of, before turning back to Demandred. "Alright, I suppose it's a good enough plan. The bloody Forsaken go with the Aes Sedai, while Logain and his men take your female channelers. Better if you deal with the rogue Asha'man," he added after a brief moment of consideration, cocking his head toward Demandred.

Logain was about to dispute him. He wanted to destroy those flaming traitors himself, and put the Turned out of their misery. Toveine would be among them. He’d severed their bond as soon as he’d been strong enough to channel, after his ordeal, but he knew that she was still out there, somewhere. She deserved better than this, to be used as an instrument of destruction for the Shadow. Demandred forestalled him, however. "With Sakarnen, their end will be swift, you can be assured."

"Sakarnen, is that your fancy Power-enhancer?" Cauthon asked stupidly. Natael chuckled, but Demandred's face remained impassive. Did the man even know how to smile? The Forsaken simply nodded. It was all Logain could do not to shake his head in despair. Cauthon, you Light-blinded fool, you can't let the bloody man keep the  _sa'angreal_! Had he not witnessed the havoc the Forsaken had wreaked earlier? If Demandred decided to betray them – which was more than likely – it would be all but impossible to stop him.

"I'm afraid I must intrude," the Amyrlin said. They all looked at her expectantly. "We already have a  _sa'angreal_. Surely one would be enough for us. Logain and his men should have the other one."  _Finally, someone with a smidge of common sense!_ Logain thought wryly.

He waited for Demandred to protest and was therefore surprised when the man nodded in approval. "Evidently. It is best to divide our resources evenly. Shall we?" he asked al'Vere.

"Yes, we have wasted enough time," the girl replied. Demandred bowed his head slightly in assent.

Taim, who’d remained silent throughout the conversation, started abruptly and twisted his head in the direction where Neya was, Logain assumed. Without warning, the Saldaean ran outside. The others all looked at each other in confusion, until they heard the girl cry out an instant later.

* * *

Mintel had known all along how things would play out. There had been no other possible outcome. Kongsidi would never allow the Sharans, His most devout servants, to aid the Shadow in the Last Battle. And yet the _abrishi_ understood the sacrifices that had been made. The queen and Shendla had risked their lives to convert Bao, to make him see the error of his ways. The gamble had paid off, but at what cost? There was no telling what would happen, what the Wyld would do to them, when they returned to Shara, after the Light’s inevitable victory.

Mintel’s concentration didn’t waver as the tent flap was lifted. He had lived eighty-three springs, and had been an _abrishi_ for fifty-nine. When he sought the Oneness, when he _became_ the Oneness, nothing could distract him.

Or so he had always believed.

“There has been a change of plans, Mintel,” Shendla announced briskly. "I need your help to relay the new orders."

It was all there. The Sharan dialect spoken with the ease of a native, the sharp tone and clipped diction, the no-nonsense attitude. And yet Shendla would never have interrupted his meditation – no Sharan would have, no matter the urgency of the situation. The Oneness slipped away from him.

"You are not Shendla,” Mintel stated. He opened his one good eye and fixed it on the creature that stood before him, hands on her slender hips. Mintel realised his mistake right away. Burn him for an old fool! He should have humoured it, to buy time to warn the others.

The creature chuckled darkly. It was a sound that Mintel feared would haunt his dreams, in the long night to come.


	82. Death is...whimsical today

Neya marched out of the tent determinedly. So, they wouldn't let her fight, would they? She was fuming but, truth be told, she wasn't sure why. She didn't _want_ to fight. As she'd pointed out earlier, she knew very few offensive weaves of any sort. And she certainly didn’t look forward to killing _people_ , no matter how Shadow-tainted they may be. It would be hypocritical of her to despise or even hate Darkfriends and Dreadlords at this point.

She was angry to be left behind, she supposed. She would have no clue what was happening on the battlefield if she stayed here, and she didn't like that. Mazrim, Jasin, Bao… Any of them could get hurt at any moment, and they could be dead before she had a chance to Heal them, or to even _reach_ them.

All things considered, she was probably more scared than angry. Terrified out of her wits, really.

Neya stopped a few steps outside the tent, cursing under her breath. How was she supposed to contact Kalayaan? She wasn’t shielded anymore – none of them were, in case of a sudden attack – but she still didn't know how to weave gateways. She was not looking forward to having to request one, but she turned toward her guards nonetheless. She didn't know the older one, but the other was Jonneth. Apparently, he’d traded Mazrim for her. "Jon, can you open a gateway for me? To Demandred's camp?" The Two Rivers youth complied after a brief hesitation, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

The gateway opened on Kalayaan and Torn talking in low voices. They both turned to Neya expectantly, as if they'd been waiting for her. Shendla must have already let them know that they were about to join the Light.

Torn beamed at her, so brightly that it took Neya a moment to notice his missing forearm. She stared at it – or at its absence, really – but Torn shrugged it off casually. "''Tis but a scratch," he stated wryly. Kal gave him a flat look.

Neya was shaking her head in dismay. "I don't suppose you've got the missing part for me to reattach?" They spoke in the Sharan dialect; Torn only had vague notions of the Common Tongue. As a result, Jonneth and his fellow Asha’man were scowling at them suspiciously.

"Sorry, lass. I seem to have misplaced it," Torn replied with a chuckle.

Kal rolled his eyes. "What are the orders, Your Highness?" he asked Neya with a mock bow. "Shendla just came by to let us know that the Wyld finally had an epiphany," he went on with a sneer. "She commanded us to gather everyone here and stay put until Bao came back."

Gather everyone in one place? That seemed like a strange order, but Neya didn’t pay it much attention. Bao was the general, no her. "You and the other male Ayyad will join me on the Westerner camp, to help with the Healing," she told him. "Except Abe. Bao wants him to fight."

"Without me?" Kal asked with a scowl. Neya nodded. "I don't like it, _ina_. You know how he is when I'm not around."

"Tell that to Bao. I doubt he'll listen to _me_ ," she said with a grimace.

"Aw, don't you worry, lass! He'll be running back to you before you know it," Torn assured her.

"I doubt that," Neya repeated. Better to change the subject. She didn’t want to think about Bao right now. She had enough to worry about. She would deal with her husband – and two former lovers – when the battle was over. "Is everyone alright? Besides Taimaka, I mean." Neya was having a hard time coming to grips with her friend’s death. As a Healer, Taimaka should have been the least likely to get hurt.

"Yeah, we're fine,” Kal said. “The Freed haven't taken part in the battle yet, and neither have we. Torn just had to go and be a hero," he added with some irritation. "Or try to, anyway."

"Would have been one too, if I'd succeeded," the older man grumbled.

"He wanted to save Cailin, but Taimaka got there before him. She pushed the girl aside, but the weave hit her square in the chest. Torn was too late to do anything, but he received a fireball for his trouble," Kalayaan explained. "I don't know what happened afterward. The rest of the Healers started running around like headless chickens, the blasted fools." He shook his head, as if he still couldn't quite believe how stupid people could be. "Anyway. What do you want us to do with everyone?"

"I don't know yet. They're still making plans. I only came to get the male Ayyad," Neya informed him. "Just do as Shendla said, for the time being. It won't be long now."

"Is Bao really angry with you?" Kal asked curiously. "Shendla seemed almost impressed by you, and she usually looks anything but that. She said you handled him like a proper queen."

Neya scoffed. "Are you kidding? He was ready to destroy us all after I spoke with him. Mintel and Shendla must have talked him into it, somehow." That was the only explanation. "Have you seen anyone that didn't belong in the camp in the last half hour or so?" They both frowned at her. "The other Shadowsouled will attempt to take advantage of Bao's defection from the Shadow," she explained. "They might show up, possibly in disguise, to take control of our army.”

"I noticed nothing out of the ordinary," Torn assured her.

"It’s been almost boring here, to tell you the truth," Kal added with a faked yawn.

"Good. I think we should bring the Ayyad over before the generals are done in the command tent," Neya told them. "How soon can the boys be ready for departure?"

"Give me one moment," Kalayaan said curtly before turning around to gather his men. It didn't take long; there were few of them. Abe looked confused by the sudden agitation. Kal explained what was expected of him. "You will follow Bao into battle," he told the big man, "and you must stay close to him. Do what he says and pay attention to what's happening around you. I will be right here waiting for you. Alright?" Abe nodded slowly and glanced at Neya with a small frown. " _Ina_ will be staying with me. We'll be taking care of the wounded." Kal made him repeat his instructions twice before letting Abe go through the gateway. The other boys followed, but Kal remained behind with Torn. "I'll go tell Shendla that everyone is ready to depart and that we're awaiting Bao's next orders. Then I'll help this one gather his unruly troops," he went on, cocking his head toward Torn.

"I can see to that myself, you know. It's my arm that's missing, not my tongue," the mercenary retorted.

"I wish," Kal said with a theatrical sigh. Torn let out a roar of laughter. Kalayaan smirked and returned his attention to Neya.

He was still smiling when the balefire hit him.

* * *

Bao ran after Taim when he heard Neya scream.

He almost ripped the canvas of the tent in his haste to reach her, and got out just in time to see Torn jump out of a gateway and land in front of Neya. When he saw the pure, bright glare of balefire on the other side, Bao shouted a warning to the young Asha'man who maintained the gateway opened. Why was he not closing it? It had to be the shock. He was far too young, a mere boy, really. It was too late, in any case. The balefire disintegrated him, and the gateway vanished.

Taim was talking to Neya, hands on her shoulders. How _dare_ he touch his wife? Bao may be cross with her at the moment, and hurt by her betrayal, but that was no reason for Taim to attempt to rekindle their relationship, burn him. Neya and Bao would work out their difficulties; that was what married couples did, was it not? Taim would be allowed to remain in Shara, since that had been negotiated already, but he would stay as far away from Neya as possible.

Neya looked shaken, and she was incredibly pale. For that matter, Torn did not look any better. "What happened?" Bao asked the mercenary, though he kept his eyes on Taim.

"Blimey, I don't know," Torn murmured. He was white as a sheet. "One moment he was there, and then he was gone. _Poof_ , just like that." He trailed off, shaking his head, the two parts of his braided beard swinging slowly. Abruptly he sat down and held his face in his remaining hand.

So Kalayaan was dead, balefired away. Abrazo appeared distressed; he was searching around, presumably wondering where Kalayaan had gone. He did not understand what had happened. Bao was not about to enlighten him; he needed the boy to be able to focus. They needed to retaliate quickly. "Who was it? Did you see?" Bao asked Neya.

She interrupted her conversation with Taim and replied without looking at him. Bao felt his heart contract slightly. "Unless Shendla has suddenly developed an ability to channel the True Power, it was either Moghedien or Hessalam posing as her," she replied with a grimace. "The Freed were there, Bao. Light, the whole bloody army was there! They were all gathered at the same spot, at Shendla's orders, or so they thought." Darkness within! Had no one realised how dangerous it was, to gather everyone in the same place? Neya turned to face him, her face hard. "Go. They need you," she commanded, staring into his eyes for a moment before crouching beside Torn.

Cauthon was shouting orders, calling for scouts and reports and cursing profusely as he did so. Bao opened a small window inside his own tent, hoping to find Mintel, and caught sight of the _abrishi_ 's lifeless body lying face down on the ground in a pool of blood. Bao quickly shut the window close, before Neya chanced a look this way. Mintel and Shendla... Blood and flaming ashes!

Bao took a deep breath to regain his composure. There would be time to mourn later. For now, he must avenge those who had given their lives for him, and defend those who still lived.

He located his generals with another window and found them struggling to maintain order; the whole camp appeared to be in turmoil. By the blood falls! How had the other Chosen been able to act so fast? Had Moghedien been there all along, biding her time in the shadows? Had she somehow foreseen Bao’s about-face, when he had not seen it himself?

Cauthon was beside him now, his good eye blazing. "You need to go," the boy commanded. "Egwene is ready. Grab Taim and the bloody gleeman and that Ayyad of yours and go. Now!" he barked insistently. He didn't wait around to see if he was being obeyed. There was nothing else to do but comply, in any case. Bao approached Abrazo and told the boy to keep close to him. The youth didn't argue and followed Bao docilely.

Taim and Nessosin were both talking with Neya now; she looked upset and angry. She was probably trying to keep them away from the fight. "We must depart," Bao told the men.

Neya glared at him, but there was no time to argue. Bao wished he could talk to her before leaving, but it would have to wait. He did not look at his wife as he made his way toward the Amyrlin, Taim and Nessosin trailing after him, and Abrazo keeping close, as he had been ordered.

Hopefully, he would see her again.


	83. Bring back what once was mine

It was Lilen, no doubt about that. No one else could be as sly and vicious as she was. Kamarile would have made herself known from the start. Graendal liked people to know that she was the brain behind the operation, although she usually used her pets to announce her presence.

Moghedien had somehow managed to gather both the Asha'man – the rogue ones, anyway – and some of the other remaining Dreadlords – women of the Black Ajah, presumably. There were hundreds of them; it was difficult to estimate how many exactly, what with all the smoke and body parts flying around. They were outnumbered. If not for the Amyrlin's  _sa'angreal_ and the three former Chosen's presence, they would have been crushed early on.

Demandred's camp had been plunged into chaos when they emerged from the multiple gateways that Genhald held open for them. The Sharan officers had been informed that they were about to switch sides, but no one had warned them to expect an attack before their saviour returned.

Demandred's Sharan non-channelers had been relocated – they would be useless here, except possibly as cannon fodder – and the female Ayyad had tried to join in the fight, but they had been ordered to find Cauthon and Logain for further instructions, just as they had discussed earlier. It would have been too risky to commit all their channelers to the present fight. Graendal could show up at any moment and lead an assault somewhere else. And there were still the endless hordes of Shadowspawn to take into account.

They had agreed that forming a large circle, as Demandred had done when he’d joined the battlefield with his Sharans, would only hinder them. There were too many positions to defend; they had to spread out. Al'Vere had kept her artefact to herself and was laying waste on the enemy on her own, while each man had been attributed two Aes Sedai to link with and was doing likewise in other areas of the battlefield.

Natael was fighting a group of Shadow-Turned Asha'man with his two appointed Aes Sedai, a White and a Grey, women whose names he didn't even know. There were more circles, of course. The other Aes Sedai had been ordered to link by twos or threes. Incredibly enough, the Amyrlin had agreed that the one-time Chosen should lead their respective circles. They were, after all, more experienced, and they knew Moghedien better than anyone else – though that still wasn’t much more than anyone else, admittedly.

They had to locate Moghedien amongst the multitude of Dreadlords. Once the Spider was dealt with, the rest of her ragtag army would likely disperse. It was easier said than done, however. The sneaky minx had always been skilled at disguising herself and posing as someone else. Natael was certain that she must have spent hours studying the rest of the Chosen to assimilate their mannerisms and speech characteristics in the event that she needed to impersonate them.

It felt like they had been fighting for days, although Natael knew from the position of the sun that it couldn't have been more than two or three hours. Even channeling through the circle, he was exhausted. Taim was engaged in battle not far from his position; from the glimpses Natael caught of the man’s face, his strength was failing as well. Unless Moghedien was dealt with soon, they would be forced to retreat.

Suddenly, Taim went down on his knees. Natael didn't see what hit him, but instead of getting back to his feet, the Saldaean slid slowly to the ground. Cursing, Natael made his way toward the other man, heedless of his linked Aes Sedai's warning cries as oncoming fireballs crashed around him. Natael released the women from the circle, but they followed him regardless. He enclosed himself in a protective ward made of Air as he dashed toward the injured M’Hael, but he could feel his strength dwindling rapidly, now that he wasn’t linked any longer. Fatigue was taking over.

Taim was unconscious by the time Natael crouched down beside him. His breathing was shallow and difficult; his dark, handsome face was ashen. He seemed to have lost a lot of blood already, from a wound to his chest. Natael had never gotten the hang of Delving or Healing, so he turned to Taim’s Aes Sedai.

Apparently, they had already linked with the two women who had been fighting alongside Natael. They were keeping offensive weaves away from them. "Get him out of here," one of Taim's pair told him sharply. "We'll hold this position."

Taim had to be taken to Neya straight away. If the man died… Darkness within! Natael had forgotten about their blasted bond. There was no telling what Neya would do if Taim died, but he wasn't eager to find out. Without another glance at the Aes Sedai, he weaved a gateway to the Healing tent, which had been set up in haste at the main camp.

* * *

Neya was exhausted.

Nothing could have prepared her for this, not even the battle at Dumai's Wells. There were countless wounded, and very few Healers here, on the battlefield. It couldn't have been more than two or three hours since Neya's men had left, but already several Yellow Aes Sedai had been forced to retire to rest.

They were only taking care of the most “important” patients, as Mat had so tactfully put it – channelers, generals and captains, the occasional Healer. The rest of the wounded were sent to Mayene. Even then, Neya and her colleagues were overwhelmed.

Mat had insisted that Neya herself could not waste her energy on fixing minor injuries, or even major ones, should they not prove fatal. She had to save up her strength in case someone _essential_ was harmed.

What an utter woolhead her brother had become. Who was he to decide who was essential or not? Was Gawyn Trakand’s life truly worth more than that of a merchant-turned-soldier, or a farmwife who’d decided to march to war with her husband? Blood and ashes, every life was precious! She felt incredibly guilty that she had to prioritise.

There was nothing Neya could do about Gawyn Trakand, in any case. She had no idea what was wrong with him, and he’d been brought in to her unconscious. Neya wondered how Egwene managed to fight on, being bonded to him. Her friend had to know that her Warder was in terrible shape – that he was dying, really. Neya dared not imagine how Egwene would react when the Andoran prince inevitably passed away.

The Dedicated Androl Genhald had been put in charge of coordinating the gateways to and from the different places where fighting was underway, but the amount of people who were brought in after the surprise attack on the Sharan camp – _my_   _camp_ , Neya thought miserably – was enough to submerge all available Healers, here as well as in Mayene.

Mat had allowed the Ayyad to be Healed here, as well as several high-ranking officers, only for them to be sent back to the battlefield as soon as they were able. Others had been sent to Mayene. The rest – the fatally injured, the ones Neya was not permitted to Heal lest it depleted her strength entirely in a matter of minutes – were left to die, plain and simple.

They seemed to understand that she couldn't Heal them all. She’d done what she could for them – comforting words, a soothing balm for the pain, a sleeping potion – but she’d seen the look in their eyes. They forgave her. They had known that, if they followed Bao, their prophesised Wyld, some of them would die, and they accepted it. The Sharans had a strength in them that Neya could never hope to match, though she would try her best to emulate them, to honour their memory. She couldn’t be their queen, not now that she’d betrayed Bao, but she would play her part in the Last Battle, and the Light would be victorious. There could be no other outcome. She would not allow her people's sacrifice to be in vain.

Suddenly, a sharp pain flared in her chest, so intense that Neya had to sit down, feeling faint. For a moment, she thought that she had been stabbed, but quickly realised that Mazrim's mind had gone numb through the bond – number than before, in any case. He was unconscious, and severely injured.

She had to get to him. She lurched to her feet, staggering but intent on demanding that Androl took her to the battlefield right this instant.

Jasin appeared as Neya was approaching the gateway platform, physically holding Mazrim. The front of his shirt was nearly black with blood. She ran toward them and crouched next to Mazrim as Jasin awkwardly laid him down on the ground.

"I'm sorry," Jasin muttered darkly. "I didn't know enough Healing to help. Might have killed him instead." He sat down abruptly – or rather fell on his arse – looking drained. Behind him, the gateway wobbled, then vanished with an odd popping sound, like a bursting bubble. Jasin gasped softly.

Neya spared him a glance, despite the obvious urgency of Mazrim’s condition. “Are you alright?” He nodded mutely, his dark eyes wide, and gestured for her to focus on Mazrim.

She wanted to thank him for bringing Mazrim back to her so quickly, but she couldn't afford the distraction. Mazrim's wound was worse than she had imagined. She put a hand on his chest to Delve him, but their bond snapped at that very moment.

It felt as if a part of her soul had been ripped away from her. Her heart shattered, her lungs collapsed. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. The world faded out of focus. Jasin stumbled toward her, asking what was wrong, but she heard him as though from a great distance.

She wanted to howl and cry. She wanted to find the person who had done this to him – to _her_ – and tear every limb from their body. She wanted to bury herself in a deep hole in the ground and sleep forever. She wanted to join Rand at Shayol Ghul and demand that the Dark One bring Mazrim back to her.

In the end, she did none of that.

* * *

Two thoughts crossed Elan’s mind as the True Power wracked his body.

_Until the next Turning of the Wheel, then, Lews Therin._

_And you, Neya. There should always be one like you._


	84. Ordinary people live and die unnoticed

"What in the Pit of Doom were you thinking, Traveling back with Taim here?" Demandred roared at Natael. Logain and Mandragoran were having a hard time physically holding him back. It was probably a good thing that the former Chosen was too exhausted to channel a candle alight. Natael was in no condition to defend himself, and wouldn’t be for a while. "Of course she was going to Heal him! Of course she was bloody well going to overreach and do whatever she thought was necessary to bring him back! Don't you know her at all?" He had seen Demandred in a rage before, but this was something else entirely. The man wasn't just furious; he was _afraid_. Demandred, once the most fearless of the Great Lord’s Chosen, was flaming terrified.

The people of this Age were full of surprises. Not only had Nynaeve Sedai somehow managed to Heal a person severed from the Source, something that had been thought impossible in Natael’s days but, independently from Neya, she had discovered a method to Heal the madness caused by the taint in a male channeler's mind. Egwene al'Vere had created a weave to counteract the effect of balefire. And now…

Now Neya had brought someone back from the dead. There was no other way to put it. Taim must have been dead, judging by the look on Neya's face just a moment after Natael had returned from the battlefield. She must have felt their bond shatter.

But she had Healed him anyway. Maybe 'resuscitated' was a better choice of word, in this instance.

Against all odds, it appeared that Neya - who apparently shared in her brother's fount of improbably luck - had not burned herself out. Then again, according to Cauthon, she hadn’t been allowed to Heal anyone earlier, except for Galad Damodred and a few others. Natael wasn’t sure what had happened to him, but the Lord Captain Commander had almost succumbed to his dire wounds. If not for Neya… Well, given everything that had happened, it was a mere detail. Natael couldn’t care less about the pretty boy.

Neya and Taim were still unconscious. Several Yellows had Delved them, but they were…uncertain. They couldn't say when they would wake, or even if they would live. Hence Demandred's present frenzied ravings. "You should have left him there, burn you!" the man went on, green eyes blazing. Natael didn't think he'd ever heard Demandred curse before, and now he couldn't seem to stop. Neya had influenced him in more ways than he'd assumed.

"You think you're the only one who's worried about her?" Natael retorted angrily. "And what if Taim had died out there? Do you truly believe that she would have sat on her arse and waited for you to come back and comfort her? After the way you treated her, despite the fact that she was bloody right all along? Do  _you_ know her at all?" he went on with a disdainful grimace. Then he did a double take. "You…you knew that they were bonded, right?" he asked with a faint scowl. It hadn't occurred to him until now.

Demandred didn't reply, but his face took on a stony look. Ah. He  _hadn't_  known. That explained a lot. Well…that was awkward.

"I once saw Neya cry because she couldn't revive a flaming  _bird_ , Demandred," Natael continued more softly. "She cares too bloody much, alright? That's her one flaw, her only weakness. But there's nothing anyone can do about that. I  _had_  to bring Taim back to her, don't you see? She loves him, Barid, no matter what fancies you may hold on to," he said quietly. He probably shouldn't use the man's first name, but at this point, did it really matter? He couldn’t very well call him ‘potato’ _now_ , could he? Exhausted or not, Demandred would likely punch him to death if he tried.

Demandred was silent for a long time. Logain slowly let go of the man's arm – his own strength was utterly depleted as well, and there were dark shadows under his eyes – but Mandragoran's grip seemed to tighten. Then the one-time Chosen roughly shook himself free and stalked away.

Natael sighed with relief.

The Last Battle was over. Against Natael’s pessimistic expectations, al'Thor had won.

The butcher's bill was costly, however. After Taim, then Demandred, had returned to the Light, Natael had predicted an easy victory, at least on their front. Instead, Moghedien and her Dreadlords had destroyed a good part of the unsuspecting Sharan army, and the Seanchan had been hit simultaneously, as he learned afterward. The news had been slower to reach the command tent, however. By the time Cauthon heard of this attack, the Seanchan army – his army, really – had been severely damaged. In the end, it was all they could do to hold on all fronts. They had underestimated Graendal and Moghedien.

When she saw that she had the advantage, Lilen had finally revealed herself, leading a circle of forty-four Dreadlords, presumably to make an end to their weakened lead channelers. The Amyrlin Seat, the only one among the servants of the Light who still had an ounce of energy to spare, thanks to her  _sa'angreal_ , had fought the woman – the whole circle – alone. It had been a short confrontation. Upon realising that her resources were too depleted and instead of retreating, al'Vere had drawn on her  _sa'angreal_  until she literally burst with the power that filled her. The blast had destroyed not only Moghedien, but every single remaining Dreadlord besides. She had turned the battle around with her sacrifice, and saved countless lives. She had also somehow undone all the damage caused by the balefire, with what was now called the Flame of Tar Valon. The mysterious death of her Warder and husband, Gawyn Trakand, may have played a part in her ultimate decision.

Kamarile had been dealt with as well, though she still lived. It seemed that Hessalam's Compulsion had backfired and hit her instead of her designated target, Aviendha, al'Thor's Aiel woman. Natael wasn't sure where she was being held, or what would happen to her. And he did not care.

Tedronai’s latest reincarnation had been brought back with al'Thor. Both men lay unconscious in a nearby tent; Nynaeve Sedai had been trying to Heal the Dragon Reborn ever since they’d returned from Shayol Ghul, but to no avail. His body was spent, she said. She doubted that he would recover. It was likely a matter of time before he passed. To be fair, it was incredible that he'd survived at all.

Moridin's condition was as uncertain as al'Thor's, although no one seemed to care much about him. He had burned himself out using the True Power, according to Moiraine Sedai. Their account of what had transpired at the Pit of Doom was foggy at best. It seemed that the Aes Sedai who had been bonded to al'Thor, Alanna Mosvani, had met her death at the hand of the  _Nae'blis_. The Great-

Blood and ashes! Months. Natael had spent _months_ amongst the servants of the Light, and still the name his mind chose to conjure was ‘Great Lord’. The _Dark One’s_ prison had been resealed, using both _saidin_ and _saidar_ , but also the True Power, thanks to Elan’s forced contribution. It ought to hold for a few more Turnings of the Wheel. Surely Natael would be long dead by the time the Dark One was strong enough to escape his new Power-wrought cage.

Their losses were innumerable. The young queen of Saldaea, Tenobia; Davram Bashere and his wife; Gareth Bryne and Siuan Sanche; Gawyn Trakand… Those were only the ones whose names were known to all. How many anonymous soldiers, farmers, merchants of all trades, how many women and children had died to save the world? Was their sacrifice any lesser than that of Egwene al'Vere, who seemed to be already on her way to become a figure of legend, nearly as revered as al'Thor himself?

Someone would have to write epic ballads and glorious songs about them. And who better than the only surviving musician of the Age of Legends to see it done properly?

* * *

"Who do you think you are, to bar my way?" the tall man demanded scornfully. "I must see her, old man. Let me through, or I will  _cut_  my way through," he said dangerously, fingering his sword hilt.

"You ain't going anywhere, lad," Abell repeated stubbornly, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know who you are, but this is my daughter's tent, and there ain't no man will enter without my saying so."

That seemed to bring the other man up short. "Your daughter?" There was a light tremor in his voice.

Abell nodded firmly. "Aye. Now get out of here. She needs rest." After a brief moment of hesitation, the man finally stalked away.

Sighing with relief, Abell stepped back inside the tent. If the man had really wanted to enter, there wasn't much Abell could have done to stop him. Who were all these bloody men, anyway? This was the _third_ one who'd asked to see Neya!

She lay as still as she had a moment before. She looked frighteningly pale. The Aes Sedai who regularly came to check on her – Delve her, they called it – had been depressingly vague. They had no idea when she would wake, or even  _if_  she would wake.

No. Abell couldn't think about that. He  _wouldn't_  think about that.

They had, however, assured him that the baby was perfectly fine.

Abell had thanked them wordlessly for that sudden and completely unexpected revelation. A _baby_. Neya was practically a babe herself! How could she possibly be about to become a mother?

More importantly…who in the flaming Pit of Doom was the bloody father? It could be anyone, as far as Abell knew. One of her three visitors? He certainly hoped not. They weren’t the sort he would entrust with his daughter’s happiness and well-being.

It had been more than two years since he'd last seen Neya. She had been little more than a girl, barely old enough to braid her hair, when she'd disappeared. She was a woman grown now, but she was still his little girl. He was lucky, he had to admit. When so many had lost loved ones, he found himself with his family whole and unharmed, including the daughter he had long ago presumed dead - and a grandchild on the way.

He still didn't understand why Neya had left Emond's Field. Mat said it was complicated, but they hadn't talked much. There had been more pressing matters; apparently, Mat was some kind of general now. A  _Seanchan_  general, of all things. Blood and ashes! Who in their right mind would put his son in charge of anything, or anyone? There was also a faint rumour that he was married, but that was truly laughable. Why not Mat becoming a father, while they were at it? He chortled at the thought.

"Abell?" someone called from outside the tent. It sounded like Nynaeve.

"Come in," he said.

It was the Wisdom, just as he had thought. She looked different. More…poised. More in control. A tall, solid man followed on her heels. That was Lan Mandragoran, the man who had called himself Andra when Abell first met him. Apparently, they were married. Abell pitied the lad.

"Abell, I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I didn't even know Neya was here until a moment ago," Nynaeve said wistfully, sounding very much her old self. If she’d still had her braid, she likely would have tugged it. Abell wondered if it was gone because she’d finally yanked it off in frustration or annoyance.

The Wisdom made her way toward the cot and placed a hand on Neya's forehead. Abell assumed she was doing some Aes Sedai magic; he couldn't see or feel anything.

"She's been like that since I arrived two hours ago," Abell explained. "The Aes Sedai said she needed rest, lots of it, but they couldn't tell me when she'd wake up." Nynaeve was frowning; eventually, she grimaced. "Something wrong?" he asked worriedly.

"She will be fine, I think. She and the-" She trailed off, shaking her head, her lips pursed. The baby, Abell surmised. Nynaeve did not approve. Did she know who was the father? He didn’t ask. Neya’s health was a more pressing concern. “Considering what she did,” Nynaeve went on, “it's a wonder she's even alive." She looked impressed, but there was still a faint trace of distaste in her expression. "She does need rest, Abell. There's not much I can do for her, I'm afraid."

"That's alright, Wisdom. Thanks for coming. I know you must be busy with Rand."

She sniffed. "Abell, I'm an Aes Sedai," she scolded him.

Oh. Mat had told him, he remembered faintly – or had it been Lord Perrin? – but he had forgotten about that. "Aye, that's right. Slipped my mind. Sorry…ah…Nynaeve Sedai."

"Well, there's no need to be so formal, but don't call me Wisdom. Are  _you_  hurt?" she demanded, hands on her hips. She was eyeing him up and down, and Abell could almost feel the weight of her probing gaze. He could have sworn that her husband’s lips twitched slightly at her scrutiny.

No, she hadn’t changed _that_ much. "I'm fine,” Abell assured her. “How is Rand, if I may ask?"

Nynaeve sighed heavily. Suddenly, she looked exhausted. "I don't think he will last the night," she murmured. "Light knows, there's nothing wrong with him. He's just…spent." She paused. "And of course, that wretched Forsaken is pulling through," she went on darkly. "It's not fair!" Lan gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Nynaeve huffed sharply. "I'm sorry. I should go back to him.”

"Thank you for coming," Abell said again.

"Let me know if – when – she wakes up, will you?" He nodded in assent, and they both departed.

Abell sat back in his chair.  _She_ will _wake up_ , he thought stubbornly.


	85. If I throw a stick, will you leave?

Mazrim could feel a headache coming. Had he gotten drunk the night before, _again_? Everything was fuzzy. It felt like his brain was filled with cotton. Mishraile was going to give him that half-disappointed, half-scolding look again.

Mishraile? No, that wasn’t right. Mishraile had joined Logain, had helped him escape, on Mazrim’s orders. How long ago? Days? Weeks?

Mazrim was reclining on a rather uncomfortable pallet – he’d slept in such conditions often enough to know this. But where in the Pit of–

Then he remembered. Hazy memories came rushing back in flashes. The wild channeling, the sudden pain, the freezing cold.  _Neya_.

He sat up abruptly, eyes wide. The world was plunged in darkness, but he could distinguish someone slumped on the chair next to his pallet. It wasn't Neya; the snoring was not loud enough.

Mazrim's breath caught as he realised that he couldn't feel her anymore. The bond was gone! He stood up, or tried to. He ended up stumbling and half-falling in the chair. "Watch out!" the person who had been sitting there cried out. "What are you doing, man?"

"Natael?" Mazrim said in a puzzled voice. Almost reflexively, he summoned a thin thread of Fire so he could see. A distant part of his mind was mildly surprised to be able to channel. Where were his guards? Why was he not shielded? In the faint light, Mazrim recognised the former Forsaken, barely an inch away from his face. Hastily, he heaved himself off the other man and staggered to a precarious standing position. "What are you doing here?” he demanded in a croaky voice. He cleared his throat roughly. There was a sour aftertaste in his mouth. “What's going on? Where's Neya?" Hopefully, the so-called Musician would answer that last question first.

"Whoa, calm down. One thing at a time," Natael said. He rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes, yawning as he did so. Mazrim opened his mouth impatiently, to repeat his questions, but the bard forestalled him. "Neya’s fine.” He paused, glancing up at Mazrim, head cocked slightly to the side. “Well, she's still unconscious, but she'll be fine," he amended.

"Why's the b- bond gone? It can't be gone. I weaved it myself. She- She couldn’t have removed it. W- Why would she do that?" Mazrim sputtered. Burn his tendency to stutter when he spoke too quickly! Or when he felt like panicking, which he usually avoided at all costs. First he’d done it in front of _Demandred_ , of all people, and now he was at it again, in front of flaming Asmodean. Trolloc balls!

Natael huffed. "Calm  _down_ , will you? And for the love of the- Light, just _sit_ , you oaf, you look ready to fall again." Mazrim complied irritably. Truth be told, he felt somewhat lightheaded. "She's fine, I told you," Natael went on. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. "The bond… It just… Well, you see…"

"No, I don't. Maybe I would, if you actually _explained,_ instead of blurting out random words," Mazrim said dryly – and quite unfairly, given his own stammering.

Natael glared at him. "You died," he announced sharply.

He’d…died? That didn't make any bloody sense. He was alive, wasn't he? Almost involuntarily, Mazrim checked his own pulse at the wrist. Yes, his heart was beating, alright.

Natael’s lips twitched in a smirk. "Of course you’re alive, you pillock." Mazrim flinched. He hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "You died, but Neya Healed you," he went on in a lowered voice.

Mazrim was stunned speechless for a minute. "Neya…brought me back…from the dead?"

Natael shrugged. "Looks like it."

"Where is she?" Mazrim asked after a brief hesitation. “I need to see her.”

The other man shook his head ruefully. "Not now, I'm afraid. Her watchdog is not allowing anyone inside the tent. I already tried to get past him, and only managed to annoy the peasant enough that he threatened to put an arrow through my throat if I didn’t run off.” He gulped reflexively, as though he were attempting to swallow said arrow. “In any case, as I said, Neya’s unconscious."

He could say that as many times as he wanted, but Mazrim wouldn't believe it until he saw her with his own two eyes. He had gotten too used to the bond, to the permanent awareness that Neya was alive and safe, to trust the man's word on it. "I need to see her," he repeated forcefully, staggering to his feet once again.

Natael half-raised a hand, as though to steady Mazrim, then sighed heavily. "You’re welcome to try, but–" Mazrim was already walking out of the tent before the man could finish his sentence. He had no idea where Neya was, but he would turn the entire flaming camp upside down to find her, if he had to. After taking a few steps, he realised that Natael had followed him outside. "Stubborn man," the bard muttered under his breath. Mazrim paid him no attention.

"What happened, anyway? Is the battle over?" Mazrim asked as he stalked away, although he wasn't particularly interested in the answer. Neya was all that mattered. Light, let her be safe.

"Obviously. Al'Thor is dying, the rest of the world is alive. Well, some of us are, anyway. It's this way," he pointed out when Mazrim took a wrong turn. They reached their destination a few minutes later. "She's in there," Natael said, indicating one of the tents, "but he won't let you in, I'm telling you.” Mazrim couldn’t see any guard posted outside. In fact, the area seemed deserted, though he could hear faint cheering and singing in the distance. “Don't say I didn't warn you," Natael grumbled when Mazrim moved forward to lift the tent flap.

Neya was there, just as promised. She looked so frail and tiny, lying on the makeshift cot, and so frighteningly pale. The man who was sitting on the chair next to her sprang to his feet as Mazrim entered. "What do you think you're doing, barging in unannounced? Who in the bloody Pit of Doom do you think you are?" the man challenged him, directing a threatening finger at Mazrim’s chest. He reminded Mazrim of someone, but he wasn't sure who. He couldn’t think of anyone Neya would want to watch over her while she slept, especially not this old crank who reeked of stale tobacco and cheap perfume.

"May I have a moment with her?" Mazrim asked with all the patience and civility he could muster. He never took his eyes off Neya.

"No, you bloody well cannot. Get out, lad. She needs rest," the man said firmly. He planted himself in front of Mazrim, though he barely reached his shoulders. "Maybe when she's awake, but certainly not now."

"Just a minute? Please?" Mazrim pleaded. "She saved my life." Light, she really had. He couldn't believe she had actually _raised him from the dead_. For that matter, he couldn't believe he had died in the first place.

"Listen, lad," the older man said more gently, "my daughter saved many lives today. Now she needs to rest. You can visit her tomorrow, alright?"

The old codger wouldn't budge, would he? Well, there was no use antagonising her…father? No, Neya wouldn't like th–

Mazrim blinked in sudden realisation. Her father? Hadn't Neya told him that her father was dead, that he had killed himself and the rest of her family after the madness took him? "You're not her father," he whispered. "Who _are_ you?" Without thinking, Mazrim seized _saidin_ , readying a blast of Air to knock the man out. A Forsaken in disguise? Neya was _ta’veren_. Perhaps they were still after her, despite the outcome of the battle. Perhaps Natael had been misleading him. It could be a trap.

"What? Of course I'm her flaming father, you bloody son of a goat! Are you calling me a liar?" the man asked indignantly.

"She told me that her father was dead. That her whole family was dead," Mazrim explained. Could Neya have lied to him? Why would she do that? Light, he was being paranoid again, wasn’t he, blaming Neya when she couldn’t even defend herself?

"Oh," the other man said, realisation dawning on him. He chuckled awkwardly. "Well, that is, we adopted her, you know? Natti and Neya’s Ma, they were raised together, and the al’Kanes, they were our neighbours. So after that sad business with her Da and all… We took her in." He snorted. “You should have seen the look on Mat’s face when we announced that he was going to have yet another sister.”

Mat? Yes, Mazrim saw it now. The man looked like an older version of Matrim Cauthon, didn't he? And Neya came from the same village as al’Thor, the village from which all the _ta’veren_ hailed. Mazrim had never asked what had happened to her, after the incident. He certainly hadn’t expected _this_. Peace! He’d almost knocked his lover’s father unconscious! The grandfather of his future- Mazrim hastily released the Source, feeling foolish and worried all over again. To his embarrassment, he felt his cheeks colour in shame.

The baby! He hadn’t even spared a thought… Had completely forgotten about…

The baby. His child. Neya and Mazrim’s child.

Blood and ashes, he was going to be a dreadful father. Provided that he was allowed anywhere near the child in the first place. He doubted that Demandred…

He blinked. Was the cursed man even alive? Mazrim hadn’t thought to ask Natael.

Old Cauthon was staring at him sideways, as though wondering if he’d gone mad. Mazrim had to choke back a bout of hysterical laughter. He itched to pelt the man with questions, to ask about the baby, but…

Did the old man even know about it? Was it safe to ask? Neya would likely slap Mazrim senseless if he broke the news without her express permission.

He cleared his throat. For now, he could only hope that both mother and child were safe – there were no signs to indicate otherwise. He would come back soon, in any case. Surely Cauthon Senior wouldn’t stay here all day. By the looks of him, he could fall asleep at any moment. "You will let me see her when she's awake, yes?" Mazrim asked again, voice lowered to a murmur. It didn’t hurt to be polite, to mollify Cauthon. The man nodded warily. Without another word, Mazrim turned on his heels and exited the tent.

Natael was waiting for him outside. _Why?_ Why was the bloody man following him around? Had they assigned him as Mazrim’s personal escort, for whatever reason?

Mazrim shuddered at the thought.

* * *

Natael smirked when Taim left the tent moments after entering it. What had he expected? The old man was as stubborn as anyone from the Two Rivers, and Natael could attest to their mulishness better than most.

Taim’s face was surprisingly impassive. When he’d awakened, he wore a look of such confused disorientation, of near-panic, that Natael had been tempted to knock him out cold to spare him the realisation of what had happened. Taim had taken the news relatively well, however.

When Natael had found out about his own…resurrection, he’d been frantic. It didn’t help that Neya had just ditched him so unceremoniously. Oh, and that he’d almost been killed a second time in less than an hour.

Yes, in his defence, it had been a rather busy day.

Still, Taim’s poise was remarkable. No wonder Elan had chosen to elevate him – or the Dark One had, more likely. In a way, Taim had taken Natael’s vacant position. He felt no jealousy at the thought, of course. Returning to the Light was obviously the best decision he’d ever made.

Not that he’d had much choice about it, admittedly.

“What happened to you?” Taim demanded out of the blue. The Saldaean had barely spared Natael a glance as he’d exited the tent, obviously lost in thought, but now he was quite rudely staring at his face, squinting. Natael had taken a seat on a half-rotten crate. Despite having slept for at least twelve hours – a whole day had passed since al’Thor’s victory – he still felt bone-weary.

“The Last Battle happened, Taim. You may have slept through most of it, but some of us didn’t,” he added with a sly smile. Natael had lost consciousness soon after Taim, in truth, but teasing him was amusing.

Taim didn’t rise to the bait, however. He was frowning, arms crossed over his chest. “Your face…” He swallowed audibly. “Blood and ashes, they severed you,” he whispered, his eyes widening. “I’ve seen it before… Several acquaintances in Saldaea were… Peace! They have no intention of holding on to their part of the deal, do they? They’re going to gentle us all!” He passed a hand through his hair. It could use a trim, Natael noted. And that beard… Well, it would have to go.

“Technically, I made no deal. That was for you and Dem- and Bao.” He would always be Bao now. After making certain that Taim was safely tucked in the previous night, Natael had fallen asleep while mentally composing the first ballad of the Fourth Age: _Ode to a Potato_.

 

_An intimidating Chosen nestled somewhere in time_

_A dangerous king - no warnings, no signs_

_Judgment day and the daunting Wyld arrives_

That was all Natael had come up with before drifting off to sleep. He let out a small chuckle, which earned him another glower from Taim. “They didn’t sever me,” he reassured him. “It was my own foolish mistake.”

“You burned yourself out?” Taim had a knack for stating the obvious, it seemed.

Natael sighed dramatically. “To save your arse, in fact.” Taim’s arse was certainly worth the trouble.

Taim looked puzzled. “But I thought… You told me… Neya saved me, you said.” He seemed ready to stutter again. It was an odd quirk, and an unexpected one. Quite at odds with Taim’s apparent aplomb. It was almost…endearing.

“Neya Healed you,” Natael agreed. “But someone had to take you back to her from the battlefield…” He shrugged modestly. “I never imagined it could happen so quickly. One moment I was holding a gateway open, and holding _you_ upright, and the next…” He couldn’t help a shudder. He knew his plight wouldn’t last, but the feeling had still been quite unpleasant. Reflexively, he grabbed at _saidin_. Of course, there was nothing there. It was…unnerving. No wonder it drove people mad. “It’s as though it’s never been there. Like I dreamed the whole thing.” He scoffed. “How silly of me, really. That’s one of the first things they teach you, now as well as back in my days… ‘Don’t draw more than you can safely hold. Don’t channel if you’re feeling exhausted. You may not realise just _how_ depleted your strength is.’ It was a mantra, in our age. Children could recite it by heart. I truly didn’t see it coming.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, Natael. I can’t believe you would… Why did you…” Taim took a deep breath. “How can you be so bloody collected about it?”

Natael grinned. Taim seemed genuinely flabbergasted. As if he couldn’t believe Natael capable of such a selfless act. Well, it had been purely accidental. Natael would never willingly sacrifice himself to save other people, even one as handsome as Taim. He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not worried about it. Neya will fix me, whenever she sees fit to wake.”

Of course she would. Neya had Healed the madness, hadn’t she? She could reattach limbs. This would be a piece of cake, for someone with her skill.

Taim was still scowling. “How can you be so sure? They may have Healed stilling, but this is… Natael, this is different. I’m not sure even Neya…” He trailed off, and an odd expression flickered across his features. Was that…pity? Or mere compassion? Natael had a hard time associating either emotion with this man, who had ravaged his native land and then proceeded to Turn dozens of men and women to the Shadow.

“Taim, she _resuscitated_ you! I’ll wager she could Heal me with a blindfold, after what she did to you,” he went on confidently.

Taim shook his head slowly. “I know that what she did was nothing short of miraculous but… When you think about it, it’s not _impossible_. My heart must have given out, causing the bond to break, and Neya…restarted it. Healers have been known to do that. And I don’t mean channelers. There are ways to…” He cut off abruptly, looking abashed. “What I mean to say is that your condition…”

“…will be easily mended,” Natael insisted. The alternative was…unthinkable. He was Joar Addam Nessosin, greatest musician of all times, and one of the most powerful channelers the world had ever known! He wouldn’t live forever – he’d reluctantly accepted that – but he would live a bloody long time. And after that, he would live on through his music. It was almost as good as immortality. He could settle for that.

He glared at the Saldaean. Blood and flaming ashes! Why did Taim have to be so defeatist? Now Natael was doubting his unshakable faith in Neya. Burn him!

Natael _would_ channel again, or die trying to prove Taim wrong.


	86. There's a hole in my soul

For a moment, as sleep gradually receded, Neya was certain that she must have dreamed it all. She had never really left the Two Rivers, never met Ishamael or any other Forsaken; they were all securely bound in Shayol Ghul. The Dragon would be Reborn someday, and the Last Battle would shake the world to its very core, but it surely wouldn't happen in her lifetime. It had all been a long, strange dream.

Then she heard her father speak in a low voice, a voice she hadn’t heard in years. It brought her out of her reverie. "…sorry about your boy, Tam. I really am. You know I'm here if you need me." There came a hushed reply that Neya didn't catch, and then there was a rustle as someone lifted the tent flap. She heard her father settle somewhere close to her. She knew it was him without opening her eyes. He still wore the same sharp-scented fragrance he always used, the one that made her nose prickle because it was so strong, though it was a wonder that Neya could still discern it under the smell of blood and dirt and smoke that emanated from him. Had he taken part in the fight? She hadn't even considered the possibility. In her mind, her father had been safe at home, looking after her sisters and mother.

Neya opened her eyes. Abell looked older than he did before she’d left, of course. His hair and beard were greyer; there were more wrinkles around his eyes. Though she supposed that she must look different to him as well, after so long. He didn't notice that she was awake; his eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep. He looked as exhausted as Neya felt.

She wondered how long she had been unconscious, how long her father had kept watch beside her bed. What had happened to her? She remembered pain, then a fatigue beyond what her body could endure, and then…darkness. Nothingness.

Light, the baby! She almost gasped out loud in her panic. She patted her belly, and was comforted by the familiar bump her hand found there. The baby had to be alright. She would know if it wasn’t, surely. Somewhat reassured, Neya turned her head toward her father once more.

"Daddy?" she said softly. Her voice cracked a little. She hadn't called him that in years.

Abell started. His eyes nearly fell off their sockets when he realised that Neya had spoken. He must have thought it was a dream. "Burn me, you're awake!" He slid off the chair to kneel beside the cot and placed a hand on her forehead. "How’re you feeling, hon?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Thirsty," she croaked.

"Oh, right." He jumped back to his feet to fetch some water for her and came back an instant later. "Here you go," he said as he handed the goblet over.

Neya drank thirstily, almost spilling the water in her haste. "Thanks." She looked up at Abell with a frown as memories slowly began to drift back to her. The physical pain she’d felt earlier hadn’t been her own, she remembered. It had been Mazrim’s.

Her eyes widened in horror. Light, Mazrim was _dead_. Their bond had shattered. And she’d attempted to Heal him… She must have passed out soon afterward. She couldn't remember if she’d succeeded, unlikely as it was. "Da?" she asked worriedly. “Have you heard anything about Mazrim? Is he…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word out loud.

"Who's that, sweetheart?" Abell said with a scowl. "You've had several…visitors, but you needed to rest, so I told them to…um…come back later," he finished lamely.

_He told them to piss off,_  Neya translated wryly. "Are they still around? Can you investigate? Please? I really need to know that they're alright."

"They? You said Mazrim," he pointed out, his face suddenly blank.

Neya sighed. Some things never changed. "Mazrim is the man I Healed before I lost consciousness, Da. Mazrim Taim? From the Black Tower?” He must have heard the name before. Neya knew that the Asha’man had been recruiting in the Two Rivers. “But then you mentioned other visitors," she went on. She wondered whom had come to check on her. Jasin, if Neya had to guess. Provided that he was alive. It was unlikely that Bao would have stopped by, after she’d betrayed him.

Oh, Light. Let them all be alive and unharmed, at least. She didn’t think she could take it if anything had happened to them.

Abell’s brow was knit. "Aye. There was one hulking, haughty fellow, and a skinny one in a fancy coat with a harp strapped to his back. Logain Ablar came next. At least he introduced himself, that one," he added with a faint grimace. "The last one was here just an hour ago. Saldaean, by the look of him."

Could it be…? Could Neya really have revived Mazrim, somehow? She dared not get her hopes up, not until she saw him with her own eyes. Her father might be mistaken. Not everyone could tell the Borderlanders apart. Why, two years ago, Neya herself couldn’t have told a Saldaean apart from a Shienaran. Borderlander visitors were scarce in Edmond’s Field, to say the least, though that may have changed since she’d last seen her home village. Perrin had mentioned refugees from various nations.

The hulking, haughty one… Well, that sounded like Bao. She wondered how he’d taken to being told to piss off. Had he come here to make sure she was alright, or simply to tell Neya that he was returning to Shara without her, and that she ought never to come back?

Light, she hoped no one had said anything about their…relationship to her father. Or about the baby. Or, really, about anything that had happened to Neya over the past two years.

"Da, do you think you could find Mazrim for me?" she requested in a small voice. "Or any of them, really. Um, except Logain. I don't need to see him." Why did the man want to see her? She barely knew him. And if he was in charge of the Black Tower, he surely had better things to do than visit Neya, his arch-enemy’s lover.

_Former lover_ , she amended.

"Neya," Abell said, "you need to rest, sweetheart. I think it's best if we wait a bit before allowing people in here." She gave him a flat look. "Well, maybe I should try to find Nynaeve," he went on hastily. "I'll be right back. Holler if you need me. I won't be far." He exited the tent without another word. Light, she had forgotten how stubborn he could be. It was no wonder Mat was so mulish sometimes. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, as the saying went.

Before Abell had been gone a minute, Neya slapped her forehead, cursing herself. She hadn't even asked about the bloody battle! Or Rand, or Mat, or… Burn her for a woolheaded fool!

She was trying to get out of bed to find out what had happened to her brother and childhood friends when Logain stepped inside the tent. He caught her as she stumbled and helped her sit down. "Easy there."

"Thank you. Maybe I'll wait another minute before running out," Neya said weakly. She was nearly shaking with exertion. “How long was I out?”

Logain cocked his head to the side, thinking. “A day and a half.”

“I feel like I could sleep a hundred years,” she muttered wearily.

"Yeah, well, I was actually coming to fetch you," he announced.

She frowned up at him. "How did you even know I was awake? It happened literally five minutes ago."

Logain shrugged. "I saw your… Is he your father?" Neya nodded. "Well, I saw him hurry out and assumed you were awake." He hesitated. "Either that, or you were dead." He smiled apologetically.

"Sorry to disappoint. Is Mazrim alright?" she asked for the second time in as many minutes. At least Logain knew whom she was talking about.

His face darkened. "He lives," he replied curtly.

Neya’s heart skipped a beat. Mazrim was alive. Relief flooded through her. "And…Demandred?"

"He's the reason I'm here, actually. He's making trouble – already," Logain said bitterly. "He refuses to sign the Dragon's Peace."

That was…unsurprising. Knowing Bao, he might be refusing to sign simply because it was called _that_. If they were talking about the treaty, however, it had to mean that the Light had been victorious. Although… What was it her father had said, earlier? ‘ _Sorry about your boy, Tam.’_

Oh, Rand. Neya hadn’t expected him to survive, not really, but… She couldn’t believe he was gone.

She turned to Logain, hoping that her face didn’t reflect the many emotions that rippled through her. "I'm not sure how much help I would be, you know. We're not exactly on good terms…"

Logain sighed. "Yeah, I figured. But who else is there? You're the only one who knows him. Except Asmodean, I suppose – or Natael, whatever he calls himself – but they don't seem to get along, either." He snorted. “Demandred nearly punched a hole through him, earlier.” So Jasin was alive, as well. Thank the Light. But why had Bao tried to assault him? What had Jasin done now? Blood and ashes, she shouldn’t have told him about the potato thing. It would get him killed for sure.

"Is Demandred alone? Where are Shendla and Mintel? You know, the woman who was there when he…surrendered. And an old man?"

Logain was shaking his head. "Haven't seen anyone else from the Sharan camp.” Maybe they were resting. Everyone had to be exhausted, after the battle. Maybe they’d returned to Shara already. “Can you please come? He's in there with Cadsuane Sedai and several Wise Ones, and I'm not sure who is the most dangerous."

Cadsuane? Neya had never heard the name before, but Logain used it with reverence – or was it fear? To be fair, she didn't know many Aes Sedai. "Alright," she said with a sigh. "Help me up, will you?"

He steadied her as she stood. "I can carry you, if you want," he told her with a bright smile.

Neya chuckled. "I think I'll manage, thank you."

* * *

Logain glanced at Neya sideways as they made their way toward the command tent. She didn’t glow anymore. Could people just…stop being _ta’veren_? Was it because the Last Battle was over? Had she played her part, had the Pattern decided to allow her to have a normal life, from now on? The girl certainly deserved a bit of normalcy.

They all did.

Logain hadn’t paid sufficient attention to the other _ta’veren_ to know whether they still radiated light. Well, al’Thor was dying in any case. Logain had yet to meet that Aybara fellow. Cauthon… Yes, Logain thought he’d seen that luminous aura around him, even after the battle. Perhaps the Pattern wasn’t done with him, yet. With any luck – and Cauthon didn’t lack for luck – he was going to destroy the Seanchan nation from the inside. They were quite a pain in everyone’s arse, Cauthon’s wife more than most. What an obnoxious little minx.

Given everything that had happened to Logain, he sometimes wondered whether he didn’t have some _ta’veren_ -ness in him, too. His failed attempt at becoming the Dragon Reborn, the gentling, the Healing, Logain leading the Asha’man in the Last Battle… and before that, the Turning.

Logain shuddered, feeling cold despite the summer heat.

He had not given in to Taim, to the Shadow, but, for all intents and purposes, he was a broken man. His mind was fractured, possibly beyond repair. Sometimes he wished he’d simply…surrendered. To the sweet oblivion that Turning apparently provided. It was obvious that Toveine had been gone; she was not locked up inside her own body, struggling to free herself. No, she was _gone_. A mere shadow of her former self. Her soul, what had been the essence of Toveine Gazal, had been destroyed.

And yet perhaps her fate had been enviable.

She was dead now, both in body and in mind. Logain had woven the fatal thread himself. By then, he had already severed their bond. He had done it the moment he’d felt strong enough to channel, after being rescued. A show of cowardice, now that he thought about it. Perhaps Toveine had been in there, somewhere. Perhaps the bond had been the last shred of humanity she could cling to. And Logain had broken it without a second thought, feeling tainted by their connection, as though any of it had been Toveine’s fault.

Logain was to blame for everything. It was his own foolish overconfidence that had doomed her – that had almost doomed the world. If not for Androl and Atal… If they hadn’t succeeded where Logain had pathetically failed…

“Are you alright?” Neya asked, her voice thick with concern.

Concern, for a man she barely knew. Who had practically kidnapped her from the safety of her bed, when all she must want to do was rest. How in the bloody Pit of Doom had she ended up with _Taim_ , of all people? And then with _Demandred_? Well, _ta’veren_ and all that, but still. Ugh, and let’s not forget about Asmodean and Ishamael, of course. Peace, how was she still _sane_?

“I’m…” Logain trailed off. In truth, several people had asked him if he was alright, since he’d escaped the Black Tower’s dungeons. He’d put on a mask. He’d pretended that everything was fine. He’d _had_ to. The men needed a leader, and somehow they’d been convinced that Logain was the only person for the job, though Androl had proven more than capable of replacing him. Light, even Atal would have been a better choice. The lad had changed much since Taim had apparently discarded him. Logain had imagined a lovers’ quarrel, but that was not quite the story. Atal claimed that Taim had sent him to Androl, to _help_ Logain. He wasn’t sure what to make of this. Why would Taim lock up Logain, torture him within an inch of his life, then try to help him through one of his minions?

“Logain?” Neya had stopped walking. She was gazing at him worriedly, chewing on her lower lip. Without waiting for a reply, she reached up with her right hand and placed it on Logain’s temple. He felt her embrace the Source.

He gulped. “You shouldn’t… You’ll tire yourself, lass. I’m not worth the bother.”

“I’m only Delving you.” One moment she was frowning, the next her eyes widened. “Blood and flaming ashes,” she murmured.

“What? What’s wrong?” Stupid question. As if he didn’t know what was wrong.

“Logain, I’m so sorry,” Neya said softly. That did nothing to reassure him. “It will take me days to Heal you. And I’m not… I can’t do this now. I need time to…” She wavered. The tingly feeling that indicated a female channeling nearby vanished.

“Maybe Demandred can wait,” he said as he held her upright, his broad hands on her delicate shoulders. “You should be in bed. I’m sorry, lass, I shouldn’t have-“

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have channeled, is all. Made me a bit dizzy, but I’m alright now. Let’s go.” She marched onwards with determination.

Logain wondered what was going to happen now. Demandred and Taim had both somehow managed to coerce the Amyrlin into giving them complete freedom – which still didn’t suit Logain one bit, even if they were supposed to be confined in Shara. Demandred had done very little to redeem himself. And Taim…

Taim could redeem himself over and over for a thousand years, and it still wouldn’t be sufficient for Logain. The man had tried to _Turn_ him. To break him. And what was worse, Logain was afraid that Taim had succeeded.

Taim should be roasted alive and fed to the Trollocs, no matter what Atal claimed. The lad wasn’t impartial regarding Taim anyway. He might be making it all up in an attempt to save the man he obviously idolised. Why, Logain could not begin to say.

Taim had chosen his path. Long ago. By his own admission, he had been a Darkfriend for years before he was elevated as a Forsaken. He deserved a punishment befitting his crimes, not a golden cage in Shara, a cage he would share with the woman he loved.

“I can’t apologise on Mazrim’s behalf,” Neya said quietly. Logain hadn’t realised that she’d walked back to him when she noticed him lagging behind. “But if you knew what his mind is like…” She pursed her lips. “He’s mad, Logain. It’s not always obvious, not outwardly.” Logain actually thought it was quite obvious, but the girl hadn’t seen Taim in a while, apparently, before their recent reunion. “His emotions… Some have been exacerbated by the taint. Others have been dulled down to nothing.” She glanced at Logain’s forehead. “I think the taint did a similar work on your brain.”

Logain blinked. The multiple attempts at Turning may have altered his mind but… The taint? He wasn’t _mad_! Surely he would have realised if…

“It can be insidious, the taint. It’s not always a case of sudden, booming madness, which causes everyone around the channeler to go out in a fireworks display. I think it was the same for Rand; it gnawed at his brains, taking out several useful, but not indispensable, capacities. Caution, empathy, fear, trust… People can live without those. They can live their entire lives without noticing that anything’s missing.”

“I’m not insane,” Logain growled heatedly. “Your flaming lover _broke_ me, but I’m not mad.”

“You’re feeling angry,” Neya noted. Of course he bloody well did! Why wouldn’t he? Taim had ruined his life! “How do you feel about your accomplishments during the battle? About our victory over the Shadow? Over the fact that you’re alive, that you survived Tarmon Gai’don?” she questioned him relentlessly.

Logain huffed, losing patience with her. What was she going on about? “Does it matter?” He didn’t care one whit about any of those things! He wanted _justice_. For himself, and for all the Asha’man and Aes Sedai who had been Turned. For Toveine. Nothing else mattered. His fists contracted at the thought of strangling Taim. It wanted revenge.

“Your anger, it has become your main focus. It’s driving you. It’s burning inside you, threatening to overwhelm you. If you decided to lash out…” She sighed. “That’s how it happens, Logain. That’s how the madness takes over. That’s how you kill yourself and everyone around you, innocent bystanders included.”

“I would never hurt anyone!” he roared. Reflexively, he seized _saidin_. “I have never harmed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and I never will. You’re trying to make excuses for Taim. You’re trying to blame _me_ for what _he_ did.”

She raised her hands defensively. “I’m not-“

Logain talked right over her. “I can’t believe you Healed him,” he spat at her. “You should have let him _die_. He deserves nothing else. The whole lot of you, you should all be gentled and hanged! Yes, even you,” he went on. His rage was almost blinding him, but he vaguely registered the fact that he’d seized Neya by the collar. “Pretending to be all sweet and innocent, but you’re the worst of them.” She flinched. “You think you accomplished something of worth, returning them to the Light? They don’t _belong_ here. They never did, and they never will. It’s all a sham. I don’t understand how the others don’t see it, but they will. Mark my words, I will make them realise what they signed up for, and then you will all be sorry.”

“Let go of her.” Logain’s head swivelled. Lan Mandragoran was standing ten feet away from them, his sword out of its scabbard and loosely held in one hand. His face, as usual, was a stony mask. Logain snorted. As if he couldn’t shatter the man’s blade before anyone had time to move! “Logain, let the woman go. Now. You’re hurting her.” Logain glanced at Neya. She hadn’t moved, or said anything, but her neck was red where Logain was pulling on the fabric of her blouse.

He released the girl, his anger suddenly draining away from him. He released his grip on _saidin_. Light, what was he _doing_? His face burned with shame. “I-I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t mean… I’m…”

She patted his arm. “It’s alright. Logain, I will Heal you as soon as possible, I promise, but you need to rest. Please.”

Logain eyed Lan, who hadn’t moved. The man hadn’t relaxed one bit. “I’ll just…retire to my tent for a moment,” he said roughly. “Excuse me.” He practically ran away from them. Trolloc balls! What had he almost done? What would have happened if Lan hadn’t intervened?

Logain shuddered again, despite the rising sun.


	87. My mad face and my happy face are the same

Bao stared blankly at the stack of papers heaped in front of him. Around him, two dozen people were talking over each other, every one of them trying to speak louder than the other. The cacophony made his head ache.

It really was adding insult to injury, that he had to sign this…Dragon’s Peace.

Lews Therin was dead – again – and Bao had had nothing to do with it. He had not even had the chance to go anywhere near his ancient enemy as he lay dying. His tent had been heavily guarded. Not that Bao would have done anything, of course. Striking down a moribund foe was cowardice. It would not have proved Bao’s superior skill.

In any case, Bao found that he did not care as much as he would have imagined, that he was not the one who had dealt the fatal blow. Lews Therin was dead. That was all that mattered. This new age belonged to Bao, and him alone. There would be no competition. Who could possibly rival him now, or overshadow him?

The words danced on the pages as his vision blurred. Bao rubbed his eyes forcefully. He had not slept yet, not since he had returned from the battlefield to the news that Neya was unconscious, her condition uncertain.

He had tried to visit her, but her father would not allow it. Bao had considered moving past the man regardless, but given his last conversation with Neya, Bao doubted that she would forgive any rudeness directed at her father. Not that Bao would have been uncivil, necessarily, but he might have knocked the old man out just to see Neya. In the end, he had thought better of it. Neya needed to rest, and the Healers Bao had questioned had assured him that the baby was fine.

Mandragoran had insisted that Bao should rest, as well, but he could not – would not – sleep until Neya was awake. It was his fault that she had nearly burned herself out. That she had nearly _died_.

He had had no idea that his wife shared a bond with Taim.

A _bond_. This had to be the most ridiculous invention of this primitive age. What good could it possibly do? What was the _point_? Bao was still fuming about it. How dared Taim bond his wife? How dared he keep such a secret from the Chosen? Bao wished he had killed the man when he had the chance – or better yet, that he had never rescued him from the Red Ajah, despite Moridin’s orders.

Had Moridin known about the bond? Bao would not put it past the bloody _Nae’blis_ , may he never wake up again.

What were they going to do now, provided that both Neya and Taim awakened? Surely Neya had not negotiated their banishment to Shara in the hopes that Bao and Taim would _share_ her. Surely not. That was inconceivable.

In any case, if Bao had known about that cursed bond, he would have insisted that Taim remain safely behind, or that he sever it – though it was unlikely that either of them would have agreed to that.

Asmodean was a Light-blinded fool. Why had he not said anything, if he knew? How had he not considered the possibility of Taim being killed, how had he not understood the danger it would represent to Neya? Well, the Musician had always been rather dense, and entirely self-centred. It was a good thing that he had burned himself out; it was a fitting punishment for what had almost befallen Neya. Asmodean seemed unconcerned and told everyone who would listen that Neya would Heal him as soon as she was awake, but Bao doubted it. Neya could Heal anything, but in this case there simply was nothing to Heal. Capable as she may be, she could not generate the ability to channel out of thin air. No one could. Not even Shai’tan, or the Creator itself.

There was a sudden hush inside the tent, and Bao peered over his shoulder. Several people had gathered toward the entrance, hiding his view of the person, or people, who had just walked in. Bao considered seizing the Source to heighten his senses and hear what was being said, but it was not necessary. The man who spoke was loud enough to be heard across the battlefield, all the way to the Sharan camp – or what was left of it. "Blood and ashes, what are you doing here? You should be in bed! You need rest, sweetheart.” Bao frowned. That voice…it was Neya’s father. Was she…? He started to rise from his seat. He wanted to go to her, and he would trample everyone to reach her if need be, but he hesitated. Now that Neya was here, now that he had to face her, Bao realised that he did not know what to tell her. He had treated her quite roughly and unfairly, after she had betrayed…that was, when she had finally made him see sense, as several people had put it.

Bao felt a familiar tingling sensation as one of the women embraced _saidar_. "You do need to rest, Neya,” a female voice said sternly. “I don't know how you did what you did, but you've exhausted yourself almost to the point of no return. You're lucky you didn't burn yourself out," she added briskly. Her tone reminded Bao painfully of Shendla. He wished he had been the one to deliver the fatal blow to Moghedien, but al’Vere had beaten him to it. Bao really had not done much of note during the battle, all things considered. It had been a waste of his abilities, sending him on the field. He should have been put in charge of the armies; Bao felt certain that many disasters would have been averted, if he had led the Light to victory, instead of that improbable upstart Cauthon. There just had not been any time to argue and protest, at the time, and when the fighting at the Sharan camp had finally abated, Tarmon Gai’don was already over, thanks to Lews bloody Therin, who had, once again, stolen Bao’s limelight. May the Dragon never be reborn again.

"I just need a minute, Wisdom," Neya murmured. If not for the fact that everyone was now entirely silent, Bao would never have made out her words. The crowd parted to reveal her, and Bao saw her scanning the tent. Her eyes settled on him, but she did not smile when she spotted him. That did not bode well. Neya was _always_ smiling, even when the situation did not particularly warrant it.

She walked in his direction, taking small, careful steps. Bao stood up as she neared the table. Her face was drawn, but she seemed hale. She stopped a few feet away from him, as though she wanted to keep a safe distance between them. Darkness within, it was worse than Bao had imagined. Did she hate him? Despise him? Did she blame him for what had happened, for the way Moghedien had so easily laid waste to most of their army? If so, she would be absolutely correct. He had been distracted. It _was_ his fault.

Then he realised that she may not know the extent of the damage, not yet. Did she know about Shendla, Mintel, Torn, Abrazo? Probably not. Torn’s body had been recovered hours after the final assault, surrounded by dozens of dead Trolloc carcasses, and Abe had accidentally burned himself out; he had blasted to bits everyone in a hundred feet radius – himself included, along with his two appointed Aes Sedai. Neya would be crushed when she found out, but it could wait. First, Bao had to make peace with her. If she would allow it.

"You agreed to sign the treaty, Bao," she told him without preamble, her arms crossed protectively over her belly. "What's holding you back?"

The tent was still eerily silent. Everyone seemed captivated by their conversation. "I cannot sign it alone," he replied quietly.

Neya scowled at him. "Why ever not?” Obviously, it was not the answer she had expected.

Bao had a nagging suspicion that he had been mistaken. Neya was not angry with him – she was afraid that _he_ was still angry with _her_. After everything that had happened, how could she believe that? He had almost lost her, and the baby. And, admittedly, _ta’veren_ or not, she had been right all along. She had saved him.

Bao was tempted to embrace her, to reassure her, but still he hesitated. He did not dare make a wrong move at this point – especially in front of so many people. He had to tread carefully. "Every decision must be made consensually," he reminded her. "That is our law." From the corner of his eye, Bao caught sight of Cadsuane Melaidhrin’s keen gaze. They would need to keep an eye on that one. She was likely the most dangerous person in the tent - Bao excepted, of course.

Neya stared at him wide-eyed for a second. "But… I'm not…" she stammered in a puzzled voice. "I mean, I thought… Aren't you going to…" She trailed off. Bao did not say anything; he simply waited for her to find her words. "I assumed you were going to annul the marriage on grounds of treason, and cast me out," she finally managed to say, although she used the Sharan dialect they both understood. The others did not yet know that she was his wife – and the lawful queen of Shara. She must be afraid of their reaction, which made sense, and it did not help that her father was here. "It's legal for you to do that. I checked," she added with false nonchalance.

Bao was taken aback, but he hid it as best as he could. She could not mean that. "Is that what you want?" he asked her flatly, his eyes boring into hers. He had never considered casting her out, not even when she had materialised through that window several hours ago, demanding that he return to the Light. He had been caught off guard, yes, and angry at the interruption, but he would never discard her.

"Is that relevant?" Neya countered. "You don't need my consent to annul it, not on these grounds," she whispered.

The stricken look in her eyes was enough to melt what resentment he may yet hold on to. Throwing caution to the wind, Bao took a step forward but, before he could do anything else, Abell Cauthon wedged himself between the two of them. "Step back, man," he growled.

Before Bao could respond, Neya placed a hand on her father's arm in a soothing gesture. "Da, it's alright." She cleared her throat. "I don't think you've been properly introduced. Bao, this is my father, Abell Cauthon.” Bao acknowledged this with a perfunctory nod.

Neya took a deep breath before continuing. ”Da, this is Bao, the King of Shara." The way she paused before uttering the next two words reminded Bao of Asmodean’s taste for grand theatrics and drama. "My husband."

* * *

There was a chorus of incredulous gasps and not a few colourful curses from the other people present following Neya’s revelation. Her father stood stock still. "Husband?" Abell repeated slowly, as though he had never heard the word before.

Neya glanced toward said husband. Bao didn’t seem to be angry with her, though it was difficult to say; his face gave away nothing. He looked absolutely exhausted, however; that much she could tell. He had finally removed his stupid coin armour and was now wearing a simple linen shirt. He appeared unhurt.

"Yes. I'm sorry," Neya went on. "I wish you could have been there for the wedding, Da. All of you. I didn't think…" She trailed off once more. By that time, she had lost all hope of ever being reunited with her family.

“But… He’s… Mat says he’s…” Abell seemed to be having a stroke. She couldn’t blame him; it was a lot to take in.

"You  _married_  one of the _Forsaken_?" That was Nynaeve. How the Wisdom had changed! Where in the Pit of Doom was her braid? She looked almost naked without it. "What were you  _thinking_?" Suddenly, she put a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. "Light! Is he the…?" she sputtered, looking at Neya, then at Bao, then at Neya again, fastening her eyes on her belly.

Neya burst out laughing.

Nynaeve looked ready to burst at the offense, but Neya couldn't help it; she had a terrible tendency to laugh in dramatic situations. This was  _not_  how she had expected the aftermath of the Last Battle to proceed. Bao took another step toward her, taking advantage of Abell’s frozen posture. Neya’s father didn't protest, this time; he looked dazed.

When her laughter abated, Neya realised that everyone was staring at her worriedly. They were probably wondering if she’d lost her mind during her spell of unconsciousness.  _Oh well_ , she thought wryly.  _The battle is over, and we won. I can afford to go mad, now._

"You did not answer my question," Bao prompted her softly.

She looked into his green eyes. His face may be expressionless, but his eyes never lied. He was obviously relieved to see her. He was not angry. He may even forgive her, one day.

Neya grinned up at him. "Of course I don't want you to annul the marriage, you woolhead," she told him fondly.

Before Neya registered what was happening, he was kissing her. In front of everyone! Light, in front of her  _father_! It was not a light brush of the lips, either. She was breathless by the time he released her. She let out a small, involuntary giggle, then cleared her throat roughly, avoiding her husband's intense gaze. "Ahem. You wanted me to have a glance at that?" she asked as collectedly as she could, pointing at the pile of documents that were scattered on the table beside them. She did her best to ignore everyone else in the tent. When Bao nodded, she sat down on one of the chairs, and a good thing too. Her knees had been ready to give out.

Nobody had been talking for a long moment now, but as Neya perused the Dragon’s Peace, the tent broke out into a cacophony of exclamations and clamours. She let it all wash over her as Bao took place beside her, placing his hand lightly over hers. She gave him a delighted smile before returning her attention to the papers.


	88. Stick them with the pointy end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay... Happy holidays everyone!

Mazrim peeked inside Neya's tent. "I told you, she's not there!" he barked at Natael. "Peace! I knew we shouldn't have left, even for a moment. Burn you, she could be anywhere now!"

The bard rolled his eyes. "Calm down, man. We'll find her. She can't have gone very far in her condition," he replied matter-of-factly.

Mazrim glared at him but didn't answer. Natael had insisted that they locate something to eat; Mazrim's stomach had been rumbling for over an hour and it apparently annoyed the older man. _Besides_ , Natael had added, almost as an afterthought, _you've just been Healed from death itself. You need to get your strength back_.

They had wandered around the camp for a while and found several fires with ready pots of stew or broth, but someone always seemed to recognise Mazrim. Well, he was a tall Saldaean man in a fitted black coat with dragons embroidered on the cuffs; there weren't two like him. Nobody would share their food with him; several inebriated people had even threatened him, and Mazrim certainly wasn’t in the mood to be diplomatic. Thankfully, Natael had somehow managed to defuse every tense situation before anyone could get hurt. Who’d have thought the bloody bard could prove useful?

He kept mentally cursing the former Forsaken, but then he usually felt bad about it. Natael had saved his life, and he’d burned himself out in the process. Mazrim couldn’t remember feeling so guilty about anything; his feelings and emotions seemed incredibly exacerbated since he’d awakened. It was…disturbing. It was like he’d awakened as someone else, or perhaps as some new version of himself. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

In the end, after much arguing, they had Traveled to the Sharan camp. After all, Mazrim was supposed to live in Shara, from now on; he might as well get acquainted with the populace. They hadn't anticipated the fact that the foreigners could neither speak nor understand the Common Tongue, however, or even the Old Tongue, for that matter, but it didn't bother the Sharans. They clearly hadn't understood a single word Mazrim said, but they'd kindly invited them both to share their meal regardless – Natael had complained about the spiciness of the unidentified meat, but he’d eaten every scrap of food presented to him. He ate a lot, for such a skinny man – though perhaps it had to do with his current predicament.

The whole endeavour must have taken them two hours at most, but by the time they returned to Neya’s tent, Mazrim had noticed that the canvas of the opening was partially open. And now Neya was gone.

"We should go to the command tent," Natael suggested. "Even if she's not there, they'll probably know where she is."

Mazrim nodded sharply. It made sense, he admitted begrudgingly, if only to himself.

They made their way to the command tent, walking quickly, trying not to draw attention to themselves – something made almost impossible by Natael's improbably radiant clothes. Who wore a fuchsia silk shirt to the Last Battle? And all that bloody _lace_! They could make a whole tent with it.

Something crashed into him.

Mazrim briefly struggled to keep his balance then glanced downward once he'd stabilised himself. Ilawen? What in the Pit of Doom was _she_ doing here? The little girl looked up at him, raising her arms in a clear demand that he pick her up. After a brief hesitation, Mazrim complied. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her head against his collarbone. Natael was staring at them in puzzlement.

Karys approached them timidly a moment later. "Mazrim? Have you seen Neya? We can't find her," the girl said dismally.

He couldn’t fathom why they were here, or how. Surely Logain had not taken the children who lived at the Black Tower with him when he’d joined the battle. But they _were_ here, and on their own, apparently.

"We're looking for her, too,” he told them. “Care to join us?" Karys nodded enthusiastically and Mazrim felt Ilawen do the same. She almost broke his jaw.

Mazrim hadn't talked to either child since he'd made it clear that they couldn't keep coming to the palace, with Neya gone. He'd expected resentment and much pouting, but judging by Ila's tight grip on his neck and the fact that Karys had addressed him like nothing had happened, they weren't angry with him. Light, they even appeared _relieved_ to have run into him. Him, of all people.

They started up again, with Natael trailing after them uncertainly.

"Are you alright?" Mazrim asked the girls. He'd noticed that Karys's arm was heavily bandaged.

"Huh-uh," they both replied with exaggerated casualness.

He scowled suspiciously. "How did you get here?"

"Logain took us with him," Karys explained. Before Mazrim had time to feel outraged about that, she went on. "He said you were a Darkfriend."

Count on Logain flaming Ablar to traumatise two innocent children for no reason. "I was," Mazrim said softly.

"Why?" Ilawen wanted to know.

"Because…" He trailed off, searching for an answer to give her, preferably something that would make sense to her. "Because I was stupid," he said eventually.

"Aw, that's alright," the younger girl reassured him matter-of-factly. She patted his shoulder. "Boys are always stupid."

Mazrim heard Natael snigger behind them. "Boys may be stupid, but girls are evil," the bard countered.

"Peace, man. They're just kids," Mazrim scolded him.

"Oh, is that why they're so short?" Natael retorted.

"You're silly," Ilawen said, giggling.

"I am rubber, and you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off me, and sticks to you." _Where did_ that _come from?_ Mazrim thought incredulously. Both girls were laughing now. Natael truly was full of surprises.

As they approached the command tent, Mazrim told them all to wait outside while he looked for Neya. Ilawen protested grumpily, clutching his neck, but when he offered to hand her over to Natael, she squealed in delight, to the reformed Forsaken's horror. He held the little girl gingerly, as if she were a particularly dangerous type of venomous snake.

Chaos reigned inside the tent. There were Aes Sedai and Wise Ones, and they were apparently arguing, quite loudly. A few men were observing the women warily, shuffling their feet. Mazrim barely noticed them, however. He had spotted the person he was looking for.

Neya was sitting at a table with Demandred, just the two of them sitting side by side. They were talking animatedly, obviously discussing the documents that lay between them. At least, she was animated. Demandred was his usual stoic self. Mazrim felt a sharp spike of jealousy, felt it like a barbed arrow through his heart. Not content with taking Neya away from him in the dead of night, the blasted man had enthralled her somehow, and even had the gall to marry her. It wasn't fair! She belonged with Mazrim. She carried his child, for goodness' sake!

As though they still shared a bond, as though she’d sensed his presence, Neya looked in Mazrim’s direction. A dazzling smile illuminated her face when she saw him. She got up, practically ran to him and hugged him fiercely. He returned the embrace as strongly as he dared. Light, but she smelled wonderful. How was it even possible, after the battle? He smelled like sweat and mud and worse. Come to think of it, he probably should have washed up before setting out to find her. It didn't appear to bother Neya, however. "You're alright," she murmured. "Thank the Light."

"I'm fairly certain that it's due more to you than to some divine intervention of the Light," he whispered back. Several people turned to glare at him, but Mazrim ignored them. Demandred hadn't moved from his chair; he wasn't even looking in their direction. "How are you feeling?" he asked Neya anxiously.

She disentangled herself from him and took a step back. Mazrim let her go reluctantly. "I'm fine. Where's Jasin? I mean…Asmodean? Is he alright? Have you seen him?"

Natael was the last thing on his mind at the moment, but he indulged her. "He's outside," he replied. "He's…” Mazrim hesitated. Natael wasn’t exactly fine, was he? Neya was gazing at him expectantly. He cleared his throat. “He’s, um, unharmed. Don't fret." He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. Light, she was beautiful.

"I Healed you," she told him softly.

He snorted. "Yes, so I’m told. Though ‘Healed’ is a euphemism in this case, it seems."

Neya shook her head. "No, I mean I cleansed you from the taint," she clarified. Mazrim was speechless for a moment. He stared at her in utter shock. "I did it at the same time as I…well, you know." She shrugged sheepishly under his scrutiny.

Had she really Healed the madness in him? He didn't feel any different. Well, he did, but he'd assumed that was an after-effect of being…resuscitated. Everything seemed oddly bright and colourful. He didn't feel as…numb as he did before, either. Not that it was a particularly good thing, to be honest. It felt like every emotion he'd suppressed in the last few months was coming back with a vengeance.

He'd never quite realised before how much he considered Neya as a part of himself, or how much he had missed her. Suddenly, it was all he could do not to strangle Demandred with his bare hands. It would likely result in Mazrim's impromptu death, but did it really matter? He couldn't live without her. The bloody man had taken away everything he had.

He wasn't giving up quite yet, however. He did have an ace up his sleeve. Two, in fact. "Someone wants to see you," he told Neya with a faint smile, indicating the tent opening.

* * *

Karys was restless. She was fairly certain that Ilawen had fallen asleep in the fancy-dressed man's arms; she could hear her little sister snoring softly. The man himself – Natael, she thought Mazrim had called him – was standing rigidly next to her. He looked petrified, although Karys couldn't see why. Ila wasn't even moving, and she wasn’t _that_ heavy.

It had been a long day. She wasn't sure how much time had passed since they'd left the Black Tower with Logain. The new leader had been reluctant to allow them to come, but Karys had insisted. This was the Last Battle, and everyone's help would be needed. They could cook or help the wounded or even scavenge useful things on the battlefield, things the Asha'man would be too busy to attend to. There was no way she would be left behind. She had been training for this, practicing her sword forms daily with the short blade Neya had given her.

She hadn't understood what was happening at first. A commotion had started at Mazrim's palace, and Sora and the other women had gathered all the children and hidden in the old barn, one of the few original buildings. Then Logain had emerged from Mazrim's palace with some Dedicated and Soldiers, looking bedraggled. They claimed that Mazrim and his Asha'man had all turned to the Shadow, but that they had been driven out.

It had never occurred to Karys that Mazrim could be a Darkfriend. He didn't _look_ like a bad person, or act like one. For that matter, she hadn't thought the rest of the Asha'man were evil, except maybe that bully Coteren and a few others. Mazrim had abandoned them, after Neya disappeared, but that alone didn’t make him a Darkfriend, surely. He must have done something else, something worse. Logain had mentioned Turning, but she wasn't sure what that meant.

It was a good thing that Atal and Trygg had adopted them, after Mazrim's...change of heart – though they’d assured Karys that it was only temporary, and they’d promised that Neya would come back for them as soon as she was able. Trygg had left Atal for a while, though Karys didn't know why, and they’d stayed with the Dedicated while Atal lived at the palace, alone. But it hadn’t lasted; Atal had returned a few weeks later, and Trygg and he had made their peace.

If not for Trygg and Atal, Karys would be dead, and her sister, too.

The monsters had appeared out of nowhere while they were tending to the wounded at the Black Tower camp – those with injuries that didn’t warrant an evacuation to Mayene. There hadn't been many channelers around at the time, because most of them were engaged in battle somewhere else – against the Seanchan, Karys thought, or maybe assisting them, it wasn't clear to her. The few men who were there were already tired and weak from fighting earlier.

Karys should have been terrified when the big wolf creature had run toward Ilawen and her, but she knew what to do, and she was ready for it. This was what she'd been training for. When the wolf was almost upon them, she’d ducked, pushing a paralysed Ilawen out of the way. The monster had lost its balance, heavy and ungainly as it was, and Karys had tripped it with her sword. It had landed on the ground with a crash, growling, but before it could get back on its paws, Karys had jumped on its back and buried her blade in its neck. It had made an odd gurgling sound as blood spurted out of the wound, but it hadn’t lasted very long. When she was satisfied that it was dead, Karys had gathered her sister and they'd run as fast as they could, hoping to put some distance between them and the rest of the creatures.

She'd almost run into another one of the beasts. There were fires everywhere, and the thickening smoke made it hard to see. This one's head looked like a distorted hawk, with a beak where its mouth should have been. It had been hacking at Sora and Gadren Grady, backing them into a large tent that had caught fire. Sora was already injured and bleeding badly, because she was obviously trying to shield Gadren with her body. Without a moment's hesitation, Karys had slashed the monster's hamstrings with a smooth gesture of her blade. That was one of the spots Neya said she should aim for when facing an enemy bigger than herself. The hawk had let out an ululating cry as it fell on its knees and then it had been a simple matter of seeking the neck once more. This one had made no sound as it died.

As Karys made her way to her friend and his mother, however, the tent had collapsed, the flames trapping them all inside. Ilawen was knocked out cold by a falling piece of wood and the fire was creeping closer rapidly. Karys had tried to lift the beam, but to no avail. She wasn't strong enough. The smoke was making her eyes water, and the heat left her dizzy. She was going to pass out, and they would die. They would be burned alive.

And then Atal had appeared, dispelling fire and smoke alike and lifting the beam with the Power. Trygg had followed a moment later, looking grimy but determined. By then Karys could barely breathe, let alone move. She felt exhausted. Her left arm was throbbing painfully. She was vaguely aware that she was being carried, and that was the last thing she remembered before waking up in the First's palace in Mayene.

The First herself, Berelain, had been attending to them, for a while anyway. She was very beautiful, like a princess from the fairytales Granny used to read to them when they were little. She was really nice, too.

Ilawen had been sound asleep in another bed, apparently unharmed, and Gadren was sitting in a chair in their overcrowded room, but Sora was nowhere to be seen. Gadren told Karys that she was dead. He looked very pale, but he wasn't crying. Maybe boys never cried. Boys were strange.

She'd wandered along the long corridors for a time while she waited for her sister to wake up. That was when she'd heard the rumours. The Light had won, but that was hardly the news that Karys had chosen to focus on. People whispered that Mazrim had come back to the Light, and another Forsaken as well, although Karys wasn't sure which one. No one seemed to know for certain, because the battle was very messy and complicated.

When she'd found Atal in a nearby room, Karys had learned that Neya was spotted at Merrilor, but Karys hadn’t insisted on details. Atal had been badly injured when they’d made their way out of the camp. His left arm ended in a stump, and Trygg was still unconscious. Atal explained that he'd been hit on the head with a cudgel, and that the Healers didn't know if he would wake up. Atal looked worried and exhausted, so Karys hadn't bothered him too long.

When she’d walked back to her room, Ilawen was eating some broth with her customary appetite and Gadren was gone. Karys recounted what she'd heard and they’d decided to go back to Merrilor to find Neya and Mazrim - either or both. A kindly Brown Aes Sedai with a drawn face had opened a small gateway for them, but had urged Karys to return soon because her arm still required Healing.

They had walked around the camp for a long time, asking after Neya, but no one knew her or where she was. They'd quickly stopped asking after Mazrim; that only earned them suspicious glares and muttered curses.

And then they'd run into him. Of course, Ilawen had _literally_ run into him, as she sometimes did, but this time he hadn't appeared to mind, not like the first time she'd done it. In fact, he seemed glad to see them. He didn't know where Neya was, but apparently she really _was_ here, somewhere.

Karys was considering whether Mazrim would be angry if she stepped inside the tent to help him look when someone lifted the tent flap and Neya stepped out, shielding her eyes against the blazing sun. She froze when she saw Karys, her mouth hanging open. Then Neya strode toward her, fell to her knees and hugged her fiercely.

"I'm sorry, honey," Neya whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Karys thought Neya was crying, and then she realised that she was crying, too.


	89. Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey

Bao glanced over his shoulder when Neya stepped outside, followed closely by Taim. He was not certain how he felt about the other man being alive, especially now that he knew about their bond, even though it had been broken by Taim’s too-brief demise. He did not wish for the Saldaean's death, not exactly, but it would certainly have made things easier for everyone if he had died – and remained dead.

Not for the first time, Bao pondered all the facts that Neya had managed to keep hidden from him. Being bonded to Taim was the most prominent among them, to be sure, but he had not realised that she was Cauthon's sister, either. Then again, most of his initial knowledge of her had come from Taim himself, with the occasional snippet from Moridin. Bao’s spies at the Black Tower had not been able to tell him much more beyond the fact that Neya and Taim were lovers, and that she knew the Dragon Reborn personally.

Taim had likely wanted to hold back as much information as he could. It was obvious that he loved Neya, and she him. Tearing them apart would cause more harm than good, that was certain. And yet, had Neya not made it clear that she wanted to be with Bao, that she wanted to pick up where they had left off and go on as planned in Shara? He was not sure what to make of the situation.

Bao could only hope that Nessosin would get involved somehow, on top of everything else. If Neya wanted him to join them in Shara, Bao would allow it, but the man would not be staying at the palace. Bao could not stand the Musician. He was a walking headache.

And yet it was doubtful that the Westlanders would welcome him, now that they knew who he truly was. He would not be safe here for a long time, just like Taim.

Bao slowly massaged his temples. At least he had made peace with Neya. They would have much to sort out once they returned to Shara, to be sure, but they had all the time in the world. Although, in all honesty, he could not begin to imagine a scenario that fitted everyone in.

Abell Cauthon was glaring at him from a little distance, arms crossed over his chest. How strange to think that this tired old man was his father-in-law. It had truly never occurred to Bao that Neya might have any living kin somewhere in the world. Hopefully, her family would see sense and not shut her out completely for marrying him. That would certainly hurt her more than she could bear.

Neya's father abruptly made his way toward Bao, who decided to stand up; it seemed the polite thing to do, although the man was a good deal shorter than he was, which meant that Bao towered over him. "You married her," Cauthon spat out accusingly.

Bao bowed his head in affirmation. "We did not have the luxury to wait," he told the older man. Well, Bao was in fact a few centuries his elder, but Cauthon _looked_ older. "I could have died during the battle."

"Aye, that would have been a bloody shame," he put in wryly.

"I take it you are the one who taught Neya to speak so…colourfully," Bao said with a grimace. Why did they all feel the need to curse so often? It was one thing to hear it from a grizzled farmer, but from Neya's youthful, delicate mouth, he found it utterly out of place, though he had gotten used to it over the last few weeks, admittedly.

Cauthon snorted. "You think you're so high and mighty, do you? What in the Pit of Doom was Neya thinking, involving herself with you?"

"I believe she was trying to save me, as well as her people," Bao answered quietly, "and the whole world in the process."

That clearly unsettled Cauthon. Bao took the opportunity of his stunned silence to withdraw. There was too much noise inside, and he wanted to be with Neya. She had almost died. He remembered only too well how he'd felt when Nessosin had broken the news to him, the feeling that his heart was being slowly and painfully crushed. It was a sensation entirely new to him; he had never experienced anything of the kind before in his long life. The thought of losing her…

Bao shook his head. No one could ever take Neya away from him; not Taim or Nessosin or anyone else. Not even the Dark One.

The scene he walked in on as he exited the command tent was not the one he had expected. Neya was cradling two little girls in her arms. Taim and Nessosin were talking in low voices. Taim threw Bao a venomous look when he spotted him, and Bao returned him a flat stare. They would have to work something out quickly. They could not very well spend the rest of their centuries-long lives glaring stonily at each other.

The younger child disentangled herself from Neya's embrace to look up at Bao, causing the other two to turn around. "Who are you?" the girl demanded, hands on her hips. Neya chuckled, though she had obviously been crying.

Bao took a few more steps toward them and crouched in front of the girls. "I am Bao. What is your name?"

The child frowned at him suspiciously. "Why do you speak funny?"

Neya really laughed at that. Why was his speech…funny? He would have to ask her. Maybe it was his accent. "Because he's very old," Neya explained. "Now introduce yourself properly, will you? It's what polite people are supposed to do."

The child sighed dramatically. "I'm Ilawen Kesunyian. Nice to meet you," she recited with a trace of annoyance. "Oh, and that's my sister Karys," she added more animatedly, pointing to the other girl, who smiled shyly.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," Bao told them. Ilawen giggled.

"Hey, girls," Neya said, "I need to have a word with Bao. Stay with Mazrim and Jasin for a moment," she told them brightly. "I'll be right back."

Before she could rise to her feet, however, Ilawen clutched her arm tightly. "Promise? You won't leave again?" She seemed ready to cry.

Neya patted her shoulder reassuringly. "I promise. I'll be right there," she said, indicating a spot nearby, "so you can keep an eye on me. Alright?" Ilawen nodded dubiously.

Standing, she took Bao's arm and they walked to the appointed location. "I guess I forgot to mention I had two little girls to take care of," she said with a sly grin.

"It seems you 'forgot' to mention a great many things," he replied flatly.

Her grin widened. "And you never suspected! I'm getting good at this. Light, if I'd been a Forsaken, you could have called me The Deceiver. It has a bloody nice ring to it." Hopefully the children would not pick up the habit of using that sort of language.

"Aw, surely not. I like Lightbringer better," a cheerful voice called from behind them. Bao whirled, hand on his sword. He knew that voice. What was _he_ still doing here?

Neya scowled at the newcomer, but her frown was quickly replaced by a look of awe. "Artur Hawkwing?" she whispered wonderingly. She must have seen portraits of the man before. After all, she had recognised Bao at once, when she had first laid eyes on him.

"Himself," the dead man replied with a beaming smile. He took her hand and gave it a lingering kiss. What did he think he was doing, touching his wife? And Neya actually giggled! Blood and flaming-

Brilliant. Now he was doing it, too. _What has she done to me?_ Bao thought wearily.

"It's an honour," the so-called Hero of the Horn went on, "to finally meet the young woman who saved the day." Neya scoffed, but colour was slowly suffusing in her cheeks. Surely she was not going to fall for that silver-tongued philanderer? The man was _dead_!

Taim and Nessosin joined them an instant later, trailed by the girls. "Hawkwing, you lecher," Nessosin said with some irritation. "Why are you still here? The battle is over. Go back where you came from, man."

For once, Bao was willing to take the Musician's side. "Nessosin has a point. Why did you not return with the rest of the…Heroes?" Puny heroes they were. Most of the fighting had been over when they had finally deigned to make an appearance. Neya was looking at them with an odd expression; she seemed to be biting back laughter, for some reason.

Hawkwing let out that rich, booming laughter of his, the one he had apparently been famous for. Judging by Neya's reaction, he still knew how to use it to his advantage. "You're right, of course. It seems your situation is complicated enough as it is, in any case. I wouldn't want to intrude," he said pleasantly. "I simply _had_ to see you before I departed, Lightbringer. I was the one who named you, after all."

Neya was staring at him in confusion. "What do you mean, you named me?"

Hawkwing arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Did no one tell you? I was the one who gave you your title, Lightbringer. Of course, you were still unconscious at the time, but it certainly had the desired effect as far as rallying the troops went, especially the Sharans. It's quite fetching, don't you think? I'm rather proud of it," he declared smugly.

"But the Foxes…" Neya cut off abruptly, chewing her lower lip. Bao frowned at her and noticed that Nessosin was studying her keenly. Foxes? Did she mean the Eelfinn? "I mean, I heard it before," she went on hastily. "Months ago."

Hawkwing appeared slightly taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "Time passes differently in the realm of the Finn," he said softly. "The past and present often merge, and it's not unusual to glimpse even the future." That was one way to put it, Bao supposed. In fact, Sindhol lay outside of time; that was why it couldn't be accessed without a  _ter'angreal_. He was not about to try and explain the concept, however. It would take too much time, and that was assuming that they even possessed the ability to comprehend the subtle theory.

There was a moment of silence as everyone pondered Hawkwing’s words and their implication. "That explains a lot," Nessosin murmured eventually. He cleared his throat. "Well, it appears you’ve lingered for nothing after all," he told Hawkwing. "The Foxes beat you to it. You may leave now," he added with a shooing gesture. The children giggled.

Neya smiled, but it quickly turned into a yawn that she couldn't quite cover. "We all need to rest," Bao said firmly.

"Of course," Hawkwing concurred. He turned to Neya and took both her hands in his. With some effort, Bao refrained from cutting the dead man’s arms off, mainly because he knew that it would have no lasting effect. "Lightbringer, it has been my pleasure. Mayhap we will meet again, when the Wheel turns."

Neya acknowledged this ludicrous notion with a simple nod. "Thank you for coming up with a title that's neither ridiculously long nor extravagant. Simple is often best."

He beamed at her. "Indeed." He looked around at them all and waved at the children. "I bid you all a good day," he said before vanishing.

Ilawen gasped loudly as Hawkwing disappeared into thin air and Neya picked her up. Bao frowned in disapproval. She should not be carrying anything, in her condition. He took a step forward to take the girl, but Taim was already there, arms extended. “I’ll carry her,” he whispered.

Neya rolled her eyes and made a sound between a scoff and a chortle, but refused to let go of Ilawen. "Bao is right. We should all get some sleep."

Taim shrugged. "You do that. I'm going to get something to eat. I'm starved. How do you say ‘ _May I have some of your food?’_ in Sharan?"

Neya scowled slightly. "I'm sure there's food around here. You don't need to go all the way to the Sharan camp. It’s probably best for you not to channel until you get your strength back, so no gateway shortcuts for you. And you… " She glanced at Nessosin, and her scowl deepened. “Are you alright, Jay? You look…different.”

Taim’s face paled slightly, but Neya did not appear to notice. Nessosin cocked his head sideways, as though considering if he should break the news. “We are all exhausted,” Bao broke in. If Neya found out that Nessosin had burned himself out, she would not rest properly. He did his best to convey the message to the Musician with a threatening glare. “I’m sure Nessosin will feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

To Bao’s relief, the man simply nodded. "The people in this part of the camp don't want to share their food with Taim," he explained to Neya. “That’s why we visited your…loyal subjects instead. We had trouble making ourselves understood, however.”

"Oh. I see." Neya hesitated, then enunciated a few words of Sharan. Bao chuckled softly, as much to his own surprise as to that of the others. _'I bet you taste delicious'_ , that translated roughly.

Neya gaped at him in shock. "Of all the bloody times you could have laughed in the last few months, you choose to do it now!" she cried out with mild annoyance, though she appeared delighted at the same time.

Taim gave her a flat look. "I don't even want to know what that meant. How do you _really_ say it?"

Bao said something else with a perfectly straight face.

Taim glared at him, eyes narrowed. When nobody laughed, the Saldaean nodded. "I'll see you later, then." He walked away without another word.

"I'll go with you," Nessosin called, hurriedly trailing after him.

"I don't need an escort, burn you! Why do you keep following me around?" Bao heard Taim complain in the distance.

"After everything you have been through to keep him alive, it would be a shame for him to be killed by a prickly Sharan," Bao told his wife.

Neya grinned at him. "To be fair, my phrasing was much milder than yours. Anyway, he'll be fine. He's got a bodyguard," she pointed out wryly.

Bao scoffed. "Indeed. All shall tremble at the sight of Nessosin and his bloodthirsty harp."

Neya burst out laughing, and the girls did likewise. It was strange to be the cause of someone's genuine laughter, after so long.

Maybe his case was not hopeless after all.


	90. Incipient madness, loss of self-awareness

Logain had been wandering aimlessly around camp, hoping to drain away his anger by walking it off.

All the celebrating and cheering annoyed him. Didn’t they realise what the so-called servants of the Light had done, what they’d agreed to, in order to make this victory possible? Really, if they let these monsters run around freely, were they any better than Darkfriends?

Cauthon argued that, without Demandred – or rather, if they’d had to contend with him on top of everything else – they would have been hard-pressed to earn this “victory”.

Logain, on the other hand, was convinced that none of what had transpired on the battlefield mattered. Al’Thor had saved their hides with his sacrifice, and that was that. Without him, they would have been doomed, with or without the newly-returned Forsaken. The sheepherder had saved the world, and barely broken it in the process.

And yet, despite his grudging respect for the Dragon Reborn, Logain would never forgive him for what he’d done – or rather, had _not_ done. The whole mess at the Black Tower was al’Thor’s fault. If he’d acknowledged their existence, bothered to check in on them once in a while, or at the very least heeded Logain’s repeated warnings…

Taim may never have turned to the Shadow, if he’d been properly supervised – or better yet, if he’d never been put in charge of the male channelers. That had been a mistake. Taim may be efficient, but he’d always had an overinflated ego, and an obvious lust for power. And he was a bloody coward.

Countless innocents may have been saved from Turning, had the Dragon involved himself in the life of the Black Tower. Logain wouldn’t have been tortured.

Al’Vere was equally responsible for the carnage that awaited them, now that most of the remaining Forsaken were on the loose. She, like al’Thor, had partially made up for her mistake, by Healing the Pattern of the damage caused by repeated use of balefire, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be praised to the skies. The Amyrlin had made a mess of things, just like the other rulers who had agreed to this. Didn’t they realise what it meant, that Demandred would be allowed to return to Shara as its king? It meant that the bloody Forsaken was at the head of a nation that covered nearly a _fifth_ of the known world.

With the Seanchan to the west, and Demandred and his cronies to the east… Logain shook his head. Three Forsaken at large, ruling in all impunity. Blast, perhaps _four_ of them, if Moridin pulled through. Though if he did, Logain would do his best to see that the man was executed and didn’t benefit from any clemency. He would kill Moridin himself, if he had to. Light, if Ishamael, of all people, was permitted to live… No, it was unthinkable.

At least Demandred, Taim, and perhaps even Natael, were leashed by Neya. Hopefully she would keep an eye on them and rein them in. Although now that she wasn’t _ta’veren_ any longer, Logain wasn’t entirely certain what influence she may have over the three Forsaken. Perhaps they would slowly wake up and realise that they’d allowed themselves to be manipulated by a girl who, all things considered, was nothing but your average village farmhand. Logain couldn’t remember why he’d thought her so special. She was a formidable Healer, yes, but she was hardly the only one. Without her _ta’veren_ -ness, Neya al’Kane was really nothing more than an ordinary peasant turned Aes Sedai – no, she wasn’t even a proper Aes Sedai, just a wilder.

If Logain could avoid Aes Sedai for the rest of his life, he would be quite content. The very idea that he’d now have to keep in touch with the White Tower, with Cadsuane Melaidhrin at its head, of all people… The thought made him shudder.

He’d shared Gabrelle’s bed for months, it was true, but he now realised how foolish he’d been. It was never wise to let oneself be ruled by base needs. Gabrelle had obviously been manipulating him – or trying to. Logain supposed that he did care for her, on some level; he’d gotten used to her, after so much time spent in her company. But he doubted that he would ever come to love her.

He had severed their bond before the battle. No matter how they truly felt about each other, it was too dangerous. If either of them had gotten killed, it would have destroyed the other. Logain hadn’t felt like sacrificing himself unnecessarily, not for an Aes Sedai and, despite her own feelings – she _did_ love him – Gabrelle had seen the sense in his words.

Logain had not seen her or heard from her since she’d urged him to break the seals. He hadn’t tried to find her.

Perhaps Neya was right. He _should_ care more. He just couldn’t let go of his anger and resentment, and they took most of his emotional capacity at the moment. Was he truly mad? Was it a result of the taint, or the Turning…or both? He kicked at the ground in frustration.

“Oi, what’s that clump of dirt done to you?”

Logain whirled. “Min?” Min Farshaw – whom he’d called Serenla for a long time; a name he’d thought more than appropriate – was taking care of a familiar shaggy brown mare. Logain had made his way to the other end of the camp, to the stables, without realising it. “That horse again? Light, she follows everywhere we go, doesn’t she?”

Min patted Bela fondly. “She’s the bravest of us all.” She glanced at Logain sideways, her brown eyes twinkling.

Logain wasn’t in the mood for company, let alone conversation. Then again, al’Thor had just passed away – as expected – which meant that Min had lost her…lover? Husband? Rumours about the Dragon’s numerous relationships abounded. No one knew for certain the extent of it, but it had always been obvious that Min cared deeply about al’Thor.

She didn’t appear particularly distraught, however. She wasn’t wailing in grief, like several women and men Logain had encountered on his trek across the camp. Min Farshaw seemed her usual blunt, snarky self.

“I thought you’d be with the Seanchan,” Logain muttered eventually.

Min snorted. “I never intended to _stay_ with them.” Logain had guessed that, but he’d also believed that the Empress – may she perish soon in atrocious pain – would never let go of her magical pet Truthspeaker.

“Pity,” he said. Min scowled, her eyes glinting dangerously. “I mean, with you working from the inside, maybe you’d have managed to make them see sense about their…mores.” About their outrageous practices. “Abolish slavery, free the _damane_...” To be fair, Logain wasn’t exactly against the _idea_ of Aes Sedai being controlled by non-channelers. They’d always held far too much power and leeway over…well, everyone. The Seanchan were taking it a bit too far with their collared women, however. If that was how they treated female channelers, Logain dared not even imagine what they did to the men who had the spark.

Min studied him silently for a minute, the brush frozen mid-motion on Bela’s flank. “Mat will take care of that,” she declared eventually.

“You’ve…seen it?” He still wasn’t sure how her viewings worked. He certainly didn’t understand the one she’d had about him. There had been no glorious moment for him. He’d only done what was expected of him – as he always did. And what did he get for his trouble? A blasted title and forced leadership of the bloody Black Tower! Light knew, he’d be much happier if he never had to set eyes on that cursed place ever again, with its eyesore of a palace. The familiar rush of rage flooded him as flashbacks of his captivity surged in his mind.

Min was watching him cautiously, as though she could see what he was seeing, but she wisely decided not to remark upon it. She shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “I can’t see anything anymore. That’s why I quit. I’d be quite useless as a seer now,” she explained.

Logain did his best to control his emotions, to push back the memories and bury them in an abandoned corner of his mind. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “I didn’t know.”

Min rolled her eyes, as though this was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. “Well, how could you? I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Then how do you know that Cauthon will do this?”

She smiled sweetly. “Because if he doesn’t, I’ll smack him so hard, his senseless head will fall off.”

Logain chuckled despite himself. She hadn’t changed a bit. He found that he was glad about it. Min was…refreshing. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured. He may hate the Dragon, but Min didn’t deserve to be hurt.

Was it his imagination, or did the corners of her mouth twitch slightly? “Likewise,” she offered.

Logain frowned in puzzlement. “Why?” Blood and ashes, was Gabrelle…?

“News travel fast. I hear you lost what remained of your sanity,” she said with a smirk.

Anger flared. “I...am…not…mad!” he growled.

Bela neighed softly, and Min gave her comforting pat. She raised an eyebrow. “Clearly not. Maybe you should take an appointment with Nynaeve, though, just to be safe.” She was still smiling, but she sounded quite serious.

“You’re the second person to tell me that I need Healing in less than an hour,” he grumbled sourly.

“Great minds think alike,” Min said smugly. Her smile faltered somewhat. “Um, though it depends who that person was, of course.”

“Neya.”

Min nodded approvingly. “I nearly passed out when I tried to read her, but she seems to have a good head on her shoulders. Despite, you know, bedding several Forsaken and all that.” She resumed her gentle brushing of the mare. “Though I’m hardly one to give advice about relationships,” Logain heard her mutter under her breath. “Isn’t she a Healer, too?” Min added after a moment.

“She is,” he confirmed, “but she almost died. She’s not fit to channel right now. And I doubt Nynaeve has much energy left to spare.”

Min considered for a minute. “What about Damer Flinn?”

Logain huffed. “You seem quite intent on having me Healed as soon as possible,” he said hotly. “What is it to you?” Min stopped what she was doing and turned to face him, biting her lower lip. “What?” he barked.

“Logain,” she said quietly, “your hands are literally on fire.”

Logain looked down. He’d clenched his fists in anger, but he hadn’t realised that he’d seized _saidin_. Threads of pure Fire wove deadly bracelets around his wrists, and small blue flames were bursting from his hands at irregular intervals.

Blood and flaming ashes! He hastily released the Source. “I…um…” He closed his mouth, at a loss for words. How had he not noticed?

Min put her brush aside and unceremoniously wiped her non-fiery hands on her pants. “Let’s see if we can’t find Master Flinn,” she announced in a tone that brooked no argument.


	91. It's called being fabulous

"I don't know about you, but I could use some sleep," Natael said with a yawn. "I haven't slept properly since the battle ended, thanks to you." Most of the Sharans who had welcomed them by the fire were taking a nap. They had looked at them blankly for a few seconds after Taim had carefully repeated Demandred's words, and then they had burst out laughing, some of them actually rolling on the ground. After they'd recovered, they had offered them bits of something that looked like rabbit meat, but didn't taste quite like it. Natael suspected it might have been rat, or worse. Who knew what these savages ate?

"And I could use a change of clothes," Taim muttered gloomily, picking at his blood-stained shirt.

Natael studied him critically. "I've got some clean clothes in my tent," he offered magnanimously. "They'd probably fit you." Taim studied the garments Natael was wearing and frowned dubiously. What was wrong with them? It was his best purple silk shirt! If he was going to die, he'd figured he might as well dress for it. He was particularly pleased with the suitable amount of white lace spilling from the cuffs of his emerald green coat. "Well, suit yourself," he went on with a shrug as he stood. He yawned again, hard enough that his jaw clicked ominously. He had slept while Taim was unconscious, but it hadn’t been a restful night. He’d been worried about Neya – and about Taim. One did not go without the other. Idly, Natael wondered if Neya would bond him again. He doubted that Demandred would allow it. It was miraculous enough that Taim and the Potato King hadn’t tried to kill each other yet.

Taim stretched then stood up. He took a minute to dust off his coat, though the poor thing was beyond repair at this point. Natael made a mental note to ask for the name of Taim’s tailor. "Fine. Let's see what you've got," he mumbled.

They walked back to Natael’s tent unhurriedly. Reflexively, Natael had attempted to open a gateway earlier, leading to the Sharan camp, before remembering that he couldn’t. Taim had given him a pitying look, as though he’d guessed his intention. Natael had pretended that he’d paused to rebutton his coat, then kept on walking without a word. Taim had offered to open a gateway himself, but Natael had sternly declined. If Neya found out that he’d allowed Taim to channel for no good reason, she would have his hide.

It took them half an hour to return to the main camp, where Natael had erected his tent. Well, where some servants had erected his tent, more accurately. Even with the Power, he would have been hard-pressed to assemble the bloody thing on his own. Natael walked up to his trunk and opened it, pulling out a few shirts that would match Taim’s colouring marvellously. The Saldaean stared at them all in dismay. Natael sighed. Most Third-Agers wouldn't know good taste if it bit them on the nose, but Taim seemed to have some fashion sense, at least, so why the grimace? These were the best garments to be had, in this unrefined age. "Here, put this on," he instructed the younger man. It was a simple dark blue silk shirt with delicate gold embroidery and just a bit of lace.

Taim inhaled deeply before taking it. "Thanks," he grumbled. "Some breeches too, perhaps?" His own were caked with mud, and quite a bit of blood as well. "Preferably without lace?" he added hopefully.

Lace, on breeches? Natael scoffed. Was the man still insane? Maybe Neya had overlooked a patch of the taint's corruption in the Saldaean's brain. "Here," he said, pulling out a pair of plain dark breeches. It had just a tiny bit of embroidery on the legs.

Taim rolled his eyes but took the generously proffered clothes. "I'll go change and leave you to rest, then," he said, stepping toward the exit.

"You're welcome to change here," Natael said with a grin.

Taim turned around to glare at him. "I knew it," he muttered. "Burn you! Why does everyone keep assuming I'm…" He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "First Mishraile, then Hessalam teasing me about bloody Logain, and now–" This time he trailed off because Natael was kissing him.

As he'd expected, Taim pushed him away once his shock faded, his face thunderous. "What do you think you're doing? The Blight take you!" he hissed before storming out of the tent.

Natael smiled smugly after him. Taim would see sense before long, undoubtedly. Natael was willing to eat his harp if he didn't. Who could resist him? By joking about it, it seemed Neya had unknowingly come up with the perfect solution.

* * *

Mazrim stalked away angrily. Burn the bloody man! It was not the fact that he _was_ a man; that didn't bother him in any way. But that wasn't what he wanted – what he needed – right now. He wasn't giving up on Neya, not quite yet, married or not, queen or not. Demandred had better watch out.

What did she even see in the man? He had no sense of humour, and he wasn't particularly pleasant. He'd probably frighten the kids away. And Mazrim couldn't imagine how he could be any good in…other activities. He seemed so bloody cold and unimaginative. It made him almost physically sick just to think about Demandred and Neya together. Honestly, what had she been thinking, to actually marry the man? It didn't matter. Mazrim would wait for her, if he had to. Burn him for a flaming woolheaded fool, but he would.

He couldn't join Neya and talk to her now, however. She was certainly resting. Mazrim should probably get some sleep as well, but he was on edge. He had to clear his mind.

He made his way to some part of the camp where he hadn't been before. People were celebrating, of course, dancing and singing and getting intoxicated. He wasn't in the mood for this – not to mention that they would probably send him on his way in any case – and was therefore ready to turn around, but then he spotted Logain. His successor was talking with Genhald and Pendaloan. On a whim, Mazrim decided to approach them.

Pendaloan stood up when he saw Mazrim. His face was so carefully blank, it would have made even Demandred envious. For a moment, Mazrim thought he would embrace the Source, but he simply stalked away. Genhald went after him, after directing an accusing glare his way. Logain didn't move. He was obviously curious to know what had brought Mazrim here.

Mazrim settled down in front of the Ghealdanin. They sat staring at each other for a long time in silence. "How many times did I try to Turn you?" Mazrim asked eventually.

"Thirteen times, ironically enough," Logain answered bitterly.

"You do realise that I could have broken you the first time, don't you?" Mazrim went on. “Atal wavered, but I could have replaced him. Each of your sessions lasted barely two or three minutes, whereas others have suffered as long as fifteen. I wasn't really trying, Logain. I hoped you would hold on long enough to-”

Logain scoffed. “And here I was, thinking you'd be attempting to make amends," he said wryly. "I should have known better. You just want to unburden yourself. You want me to absolve you." He shook his head. “You’re lucky she forced Damer to Heal me, otherwise I would have balefired you by now.”

Mazrim remained silent. He wasn’t sure who ‘she’ was, but it didn’t matter. Apologies were not his strongest point, he had to admit. It looked like he'd gone about it the wrong way. Better not to add anything. He would only make things worse. He started to rise when Logain spoke again.

"In any case," he said, "I'm not the one you should apologise to. You should be saving all that for the dozens of men and women you _did_ Turn to the Shadow."

He would if he could, but Natael had already explained that the few who’d survived the battle had been ‘put out of their misery’. "A hundred and sixty-seven," Mazrim said softly. He was grateful to Neya for cleansing him of the taint's corruption, of course, but he couldn't help but be nostalgic of the days when he was blissfully unaware of the guilt that now plagued him. It was gnawing at him, insidiously spreading in his mind, eating at his brains, not unlike the taint itself, in fact. In that moment, he was glad that the bond he used to share with Neya was gone. He wouldn't wish the feeling on his worst enemy. Not even Demandred, although he doubted that the man was capable of feeling guilt.

"The taint…" Logain began uncertainly.

"…had nothing to do with it," Mazrim finished for him. "I was lucid the whole time. I remember everything clearly. The madness helped me deal with it, emotionally, but it didn't make the decisions for me." Suddenly, he found it hard to meet Logain's eyes. "I should have requested a fair trial," he whispered, picking at the ridiculous lace adorning Natael's shirt. It was good-quality silk, but Mazrim wasn’t keen on adding lace to every piece of clothing he wore. Lace should be used sparingly. "No pardon, no exile. I don't deserve any of that."

"Oh, enough with the self-flagellation," Logain growled. "You got your deal, man. Don't go throwing it in our faces now," he warned him. "You were given a second chance, Taim. Don't squander it." With that, he stood up and moved to join the other Asha'man – or so Mazrim thought at first. Logain veered suddenly, heading toward a young woman who'd been observing them, apparently. Mazrim recognised her: Min Farshaw, one of al’Thor lovers. It was odd to see her here, when the Dragon had just passed away. Shouldn’t she be mourning him? Well, it was hardly Mazrim’s business. He certainly wouldn't mourn for al'Thor.

He sat gazing at the grass, his mind blank. No one paid him any attention, for once. They were too busy dancing drunkenly and singing bawdy songs.

He heard someone approach him some time later, but he couldn't be bothered to look up. "Care to dance?" the newcomer asked.

Of course, it had to be Natael. To his horror, Mazrim felt himself blush, which made everything worse. "I thought you were going to sleep?" Mazrim muttered, tearing out several innocent blades of grass.

He could almost hear the smirk in the bard's voice. "I was getting ready to do just that, but then I thought that, since you were upset, you were likely to get yourself in trouble, or even go look for it. I see that I was right," he added, planting himself in the spot that Logain had deserted moments ago. Mazrim didn’t waste any breath to contradict him. He hadn’t been looking for trouble. At least he didn’t think so. "Come dance with me," Natael commanded, holding out a hand.

Mazrim looked up at him and scoffed. "You really think I'm going to dance with _you_?" Was the man insane? After all, he had been subject to the taint for a few months, and he’d suffered a tremendous shock recently.

"Nobody else seems to be offering," Natael replied with a grin.

Mazrim stared at him for a minute. _Then again, why not?_ he thought. _It can't hurt my reputation any more than it already is_. Besides, he wanted to see the look on Logain's face - he was still talking with Miss Farshaw, some distance away. "Fine," he grumbled eventually, grabbing Natael's hand. "But I'll lead."


	92. All these things that I've done

Someone was pulling at his sleeve. He wondered who would dare wake him in this fashion.

"Bao?" someone said in a low voice. "I have to pee." Bao opened his eyes at these unexpected words. It was the youngest girl, Ilawen.

He saw that her sister and Neya were still asleep on the cot. "What do you need me for?" he asked hesitantly. Surely she was old enough to deal with these things on her own, was she not? He had very little experience with children. He had been Ilyena's eldest daughter's godfather, at her request, but that was a long time ago, and he had rarely visited the child in any case. Mainly to avoid Lews Therin.

"I don't know where to go," Ilawen explained. “And I don’t want to go outside alone.”

Darkness within! Well, Bao would have to deal with this – and worse – sooner or later. He stood up smoothly. "Very well, I will accompany you."

"Can you carry me?"

"Why? You are lucky enough to have two legs and the ability to use them."

She grumbled unintelligibly. "At least give me your hand. I don't want to get lost." Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand firmly.

They walked for a moment in blessed silence. Everyone gave Bao a wide berth, but it seems that a few people were intoxicated enough to give him nasty glares, though he paid them no heed. Eventually, they found a deserted place and Bao told the girl to just go behind one of the tents while he 'kept watch'. For what, he did not know.

Ilawen looked up at him anxiously. "You wait for me?"

"Of course."

"You won't leave? Promise?" she asked again.

Why was she being so insistent? It was not like she was going away on an expedition. Bao crouched in front of her. "Why would I leave?"

"I don't know. Why does anyone leave?" she countered. "Neya said she would look after us and then she abandoned us. Then Mazrim left us, too. And Daddy, but he's dead, so that's different. At least that's what Karys says," she went on wistfully.

"Neya did not leave of her own accord. I took her away," Bao explained. "She did not abandon you. She will not."

Ilawen scowled. "Why did you take her away from us?"

"I...needed her," he said. It was the simple truth.

"What for?"

_Burn my soul, do they always ask so many questions?_ "She played a crucial role in my plan," he told her patiently. He quickly realised his mistake.

"What plan?"

Was he supposed to lie to her, on account of her young age? He could not say. He never lied, unless he had no choice. He would have trouble coming up with a likely story on the spot, in any case. "The plan that would have allowed me to destroy the champion of the Light, the man you call the Dragon Reborn."

Ilawen looked more confused than ever. "Why did you want to destroy him? He's on our side. He saved us from the Dark One."

Bao refrained from scoffing and disputing that ludicrous statement. The girl was clearly struggling to understand. He should probably tell her to go on with her business and go back to sleep. He doubted that she would comply, however. "Because I was one of the Forsaken," he admitted. He was careful to use the appropriate term, the word she was most likely to understand.

"I don't know any Forsaken named Bao," she said dubiously.

"I was not always called by that name," he said. "I was known as Demandred."

Her eyes went wide and she took a stumbling step backwards. "Are you going to eat me?" she whispered fearfully.

_Eat_ her? "Why in the blazes would I do that?" Bao asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Granny used to say that Demandred would come and eat us if we didn't finish our vegetables, and that Lanfear would wear our skin for a dress if we got mud stains on our clothes."

By the blood falls! What sane person would tell _that_ to a child? "I fear that your grandmother’s references are inaccurate," he said soothingly. "I do not eat children. I never have." He did not add that Mierin didn’t flay people and wear their skins. For all Bao knew, she did.

"Oh. Maybe Granny was wrong. She mixed up things sometimes. Maybe it was another Forsaken,” Ilawen said sagely.

"Yes, perhaps it was."

He started to tell her to go along, but she forestalled him. "So you didn't kill people?"

Bao hesitated. It was one thing to tell her the truth, but she was clearly too young to hear this. He tried to dismiss it. "It was a long time ago," he said. "Don't you have something to do?"

"You're trying to change the subject," she chided him. "Granny always did that, too. Karys says grown-ups always do that when they're embarrassed by a question. Or by an answer," she amended.

Perhaps he had underestimated her. "I killed people," he said softly. "Many people, women and children among them." Neya would likely have his hide for saying this, but what else was he supposed to do?

"Why? What did they do to you?" Ilawen wanted to know. She didn't seem particularly disturbed, but rather…curious.

The question took Bao aback. How strange that a five-year-old child could render him speechless. In truth, he had never paused to consider his actions, back in those days. "It seemed…justified at the time," he muttered eventually. He had no other answer to give her. He had done many things, many terrible things, after he turned to the Shadow. The one that stuck in his mind, however, the one that still intruded on his dreams, millennia later, was the obliteration of his native city, Adanza. The person who had given command of the armies of the Light to Lews Therin had lived there, with his family. Bao had destroyed them all when the occasion presented itself, when Ishamael sent him there on a mission. But he did not leave it at that. All these people, he had reflected at the time, these brainless sheep, they all saw Lews Therin as their saviour, their champion. They worshipped him. What fools they were. He was not certain what had prompted him to annihilate the entire city, but Trollocs needed feeding, and that seemed justification enough. They would not survive the Great Lord's reign, in any case. Only the strong would survive. Truly, he was doing them a favour. That was what he had told himself, at the time, and Elan had praised him for his initiative.

Ilawen was still scowling at him. "But you're good now, aren't you? You're not a Forsaken anymore," she said almost dismissively.

"I am not a Forsaken anymore," he confirmed. "But that does not make me _good_. It means I am aspiring to be good, I suppose." He _would_ strive to be good. They had given him – Neya had given him – a second chance, an opportunity to start over with a clean slate. He was going to do it justice, to the best of his ability.

"Alright then," Ilawen said with a shrug. "I'm going now. You stay here," she added, pointing a threatening finger toward his chest.

"I will not move," he assured her, standing upright.

She was gone less than a minute, and then she ran back to him in all haste, studying the grass under his feet suspiciously. She appeared satisfied that he had remained in the same spot.

"There you are!" someone called from behind them. It was Karys. Bao noticed with some surprise that she was carrying a sheathed short sword on her belt. "I've been looking everywhere for you! I told you to stay near me, Ila. What if Trollocs show up again?"

"There are no more Trollocs, not here," Bao said. "I am sorry if you were worried about her."

"I was safe anyway," Ilawen told her sister. "He's Demandred. No one is going to attack us if he's here," she went on matter-of-factly. "Not even Trollocs."

Karys was staring at her, clearly mortified. "What are you going on about, silly? Don't say things like that." She looked up at Bao. "I'm sorry, she says whatever fancy comes up to her head without thinking, sometimes," she said, directing a scolding look at Ilawen.

"It is not a fancy. And she is correct. Nobody is going to harm you as long as I am around."

"You're…Demandred?" she repeated dubiously.

"I was, yes. I am only Bao, now. Is Neya awake?" Karys shook her head, scowling faintly.

"Can we dance?" Ilawen asked suddenly, pointing to a group of people in the distance. "I want to dance with Mazrim and Jasin!"

Bao glanced in the direction she was indicating. There was Taim, dancing with Nessosin.

Some things never changed. The Musician had never cared about attracting attention to him; quite the opposite, in fact. Even in the so-called Age of Legends, two men dancing together had been considered an oddity, although nobody had minded. Bao could not imagine what people would make of it in this backward age, even in these circumstances. "Very well," he said with a defeated sigh. "We can stay a little while, I suppose."

Until Neya was awake, that was. Then she would rescue him from this improbable situation, hopefully.


	93. He exists now only in my memory

Neya was awakened by Bao. She felt slightly disoriented; her nap must have lasted longer than anticipated. They were alone in the tent. Neya assumed that the girls were playing outside under adult supervision. Surely Bao wouldn’t have left them alone. "Is it night already?" she asked with a yawn, noticing the gloom.

"The sun has just set. Are you feeling rested?"

Neya mentally assessed her energy levels before nodding slowly in reply. She could probably sleep another week, in truth, but she had been idle long enough. She yearned to find the girls and Mazrim and Jasin and celebrate the Light’s victory with everyone else, but she had indulged herself long enough. "Bao, I need to know something before we do anything else.” Peace, but she wasn't looking forward to this conversation. "Who died?" she murmured. She had to force the words out.

She had not expected Bao to sugar-coat it, and he didn't disappoint. Every name out of his mouth felt like a lash from Lanfear’s whip, striking right into her heart. "Shendla and Mintel. Galbrait. Torn and Abe."

She was too shocked to even cry. She had expected to hear that Shendla was gone – Moghedien wouldn't have taken the woman's appearance without making certain that she wouldn't show up to discredit her – but the others… Light, Mintel. And poor, sweet Abrazo. Kal would have scolded her to death for putting the young Ayyad in harm’s way, if he’d... Blood and ashes. They were all dead, weren’t they? Every man and woman Neya had come to know and love since she’d turned up in Shara was gone.

What was worse, her husband was only getting started. "A good many of the generals, and the Ayyad Warriors were mostly decimated, as well as half of our Healers. The Freed, and the rest of the non-channelers…" Bao paused for a moment. "We managed to save some of them. A third, perhaps." Neya closed her eyes. _Please, no more names_.

But of course there were more. "Gawyn Trakand," Bao went on, though Neya had already guessed that, "Siuan Sanche, Gareth Bryne, Davram Bashere and his wife." Well, it was a shame, but Neya hadn't known these people for more than a few minutes.

There was an ominous silence. Neya braced herself as a dozen names ran through her mind. She hadn’t seen Mat in the command tent, or Perrin, or… "The Amyrlin Seat sacrificed herself to kill Moghedien, and to Heal the damage caused by the balefire."

_Egwene_. Neya’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes flew open. He had to be wrong. Egwene couldn't be dead. She searched Bao’s eyes, which seemed to reflect her own sadness. "Blood and flaming ashes," she whispered eventually. Hardly fitting, but all she could manage at the moment.

Bao went on relentlessly, before she could properly assimilate the news. "The Aiel took a hard blow at the front near Shayol Ghul, as well as the Seanchan forces. I suppose everyone did," he amended.

"And Mat?" Neya asked. “Perrin?” Light, let them be alright. Let them be alive.

"Aybara survived. Your…brother as well, and his wife."

Neya frowned in confusion. "Perrin's wife?" She couldn’t even remember her name. She’d never met her.

“I do not know if Faile Bashere made it out alive. I meant your brother's wife,” Bao clarified.

Neya let out a startling snort of laughter. "Good one. I appreciate you trying to cheer me up. Two jokes in less than a day! Maybe your case is not desperate after all," she said wryly.

"It is not a joke," he told her with a faint scowl. "Cauthon married the Seanchan Empress some weeks past. I thought you knew."

She stared at him in astonishment. He didn't seem to be pulling her leg. "Mat? My brother, Matrim Cauthon, is _married_? He's the Emperor of flaming _Seanchan_?" Her voice kept rising as she said the words. It truly was preposterous.

"Not exactly," Bao put in. "The Empress is the foremost authority in Seanchan. She is their supreme leader. She is considered almost like a higher being. As I understand it, Cauthon stands just a step below her. They call him the Prince of the Ravens," he explained.

"May the Creator shelter us," Neya said. "Mat at the head of an Empire, or near enough." She chuckled. "If that's not a sure sign that the world almost ended, I don't know what is." She looked up at Bao once more, and felt her heart contract. There was more. "Alright, what else?" she asked with a sigh. Might as well suffer it all at once.

Bao hesitated, and that alone was out of character enough that Neya feared the worst. Though she couldn’t imagine what the worst could be, at this point.

“Nessosin…” Neya’s heart skipped a beat. She’d just seen Jasin. He couldn’t possibly have died while she was asleep! “He burned himself out,” Bao muttered. “That is why you thought he looked different.”

She didn’t know what to say. Elan had often warned her about this dangerous aspect of channeling, but she’d never encountered anyone who’d suffered from it. But Nynaeve had Healed Logain – surely she could help Jay, or explain to Neya how to do it, if the Wisdom was reluctant to Heal the former Forsaken herself. Or Neya would simply figure it out on her own. How difficult could it be?

“I know what you are thinking,” Bao said softly, “but I doubt that you will be able to help him. He was not severed; the ability was burned out of him. It is entirely gone. There is nothing to retrieve, nothing to repair.”

Neya shook her head. He couldn’t mean that. “It’ll be considered impossible when I deem that it is,” she declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

Bao sighed, but he made no more comment on the matter. "The reason I came to wake you," he told her, "is that al'Thor passed away while you were unconscious, this morning, and they will be burning his body in a short while."

Neya blinked. "Rand? Light, I didn't even know he’d survived past the battle! I assumed he’d died at Shayol Ghul, otherwise I would have asked about him sooner.” Burn her for a woolheaded fool! Bao was gazing at her with an odd expression on his face. "What?" she asked, more sharply than she'd intended.

"On the other hand, Moridin appears to be recovering," he said quietly, "according to al'Meara."

"Elan?" Neya shook her head in wonder. If there was one person whom she hadn't counted on to live past Tarmon Gai'don, besides Rand himself… "I have to see him," she announced, standing up. "Then I'll attend Rand's…." She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Bao nodded, as though he’d expected nothing else. "Moridin was still unconscious when I last enquired, but I thought you would want to visit him," he said. "I will return to Shara in the meantime, if it is alright with you.”

"Yes, of course," she replied. "Good idea. I'll join you soon. They don't want us here, anyway. I'll gather everyone after…when it's over," she finished lamely. "Bao, what should we do? About Elan, I mean. He can't stay here. They'll execute him. He made no deal with them. He never expected to live." That was a euphemism. Elan had very much _wanted_ to die.

"Take him back to Shara with you, if they let you," Bao said. _If you must_ , his tone implied. "One more or one less…" he went on resignedly. "Who did you leave in charge in Shara?" he asked after a moment.

"Taki.” He was one of the _abrishi_ , a former mercenary who now taught the sword to young soldiers. He had been a good friend of Mintel, and he was reasonably intelligent and cautious. He’d seemed the best suited to make decisions in their absence. Bao nodded in approval. "Who are you going to appoint as the new leader of the Ayyad?"

"Who are _we_ going to appoint, you mean," he rectified.

"Yes, well, I have no clue. The few I liked or didn't hate are dead, apparently," she said with a grimace.

"We can discuss this when you return home."

"Fair enough. Where are the girls?" she asked at last. She couldn’t hear them. She hoped that they hadn’t wandered off. Finding them in the camp would be a hassle.

"They’re with Taim. And Nessosin. And Ablar," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Neya smiled. Oh, this was going to be a glorious mess, when they all settled down in Shara. Well, without Logain, of course. Surely the man would lead the Black Tower now, instead of Mazrim. Neya hoped that she’d have some time to Heal him before she headed back home, or that he’d find someone to do it soon, at least. "I suppose you'll be Traveling with the rest of the army?" Bao nodded. "Good. I'll see you later." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. It lasted longer than she'd anticipated. "No, no, no, not now. I have to go," she said quickly, pushing him away firmly, if somewhat reluctantly. She stepped out of the tent before he could say anything. Spending some time alone with her husband was tempting, after everything they’d been through, but she had more important things to see to. There would be plenty of time to catch up, in any case.

* * *

Neya should have asked where Rand's funeral would take place, but in the end she found the place easily enough. There weren't many people gathered around the pyre. She stood at a distance, the flames dancing in her eyes, before walking away. She felt like an intruder, and she couldn’t bear poor Tam’s grief. Better to find Elan and return to Shara as soon as possible. Neya hoped that Rand would not hold it against her.

As she neared one of the tents, someone stepped out of it. Moridin.

_Elan_. Light, he really was alive! Neya ran to him. Startled, he turned to face her when he heard her approach, his eyes widening, but she hugged him tightly before he could even speak. "Elan! You're alive, thank the Light," she whispered.

The witty comeback she expected never came. He groaned. "Neya…" He cleared his throat. "I'm so sorry." He carefully disentangled himself from her embrace. "I’m not… It's me, Rand," he told her softly. She stared up at him in confusion. What was he going on about? "I…well, that is, we…um…swapped bodies. I'm not sure how it happened," he went on haltingly. "We were linked somehow, you see, even before the battle began. My body, the…the one they're burning… It was beyond saving. And Elan…"

"Elan wanted an end to it all," Neya finished for him. It seemed that Elan had gotten his wish after all.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

"Rand, you don't have to apologise for being alive. Light, you of all people _deserve_ to be alive. I'm so glad you're alright." She really was, although she couldn't conceal her disappointment, not entirely. If she'd asked about it sooner, she might have been able to save them both. Blood and flaming ashes! She took a deep breath. " _I'm_ sorry. I really should be thanking you."

He frowned at her. "Thanking me?"

"You just saved the world, you woolhead!"

"Oh, that," he said sheepishly. "It was nothing.” Neya chuckled at his false modesty. "And I should be thanking _you_ , in fact.”

"Me? I spent most of the battle in a bloody palace, and then I slept through the rest of it," she muttered glumly.

"I was faltering, Neya," he said. "I could feel every death, you know? The Dark One made me watch it all. I saw Demandred appear with his Sharans, when no one expected them, destroying so many at once. I thought we were done for," he murmured. "I was almost ready to give up. If you hadn't convinced Demandred to join our side…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know how you did it. Lews Therin was adamant that Barid would never be turned, that he had given himself to the Shadow entirely, and Elan seemed to agree. And Taim… Light! What a mess I made at the Black Tower," he said wistfully. "Those men were my responsibility, Taim included, and I abandoned them to fend for themselves. It's no wonder the man was drawn to the Shadow, when he felt that the Light and its champion had forsaken them." He looked angry with himself, even now.

"Rand, you did what you could. You did your best, under the circumstances." She gave him a level look. "All those deaths, they are to be laid at the Dark One's feet. Don't let this unwarranted guilt crush you."

He didn't say anything for a long time. He was staring at the pyre, where his original body was being consumed by the flames, the body that had been Elan Morin Tedronai's last prison, for so short a time. Neya couldn't bring herself to look at it, now that she knew who was being burned. She inhaled deeply and batted her eyes to keep the tears at bay. There would be time to grieve later.

"I do hope you will consider naming him Rand," the Dragon Reborn said eventually.

Neya frowned at him perplexedly for a moment, until he pointed to her belly. He was grinning. "Right," she said with a smirk. "That’s incredibly imaginative. I'm sure no one else will think of that. He'll be one of a kind." Rand's grin widened. "Also, you know, it could be a girl," she pointed out.

"You could call her Randi," he supplied helpfully. Neya rolled her eyes. "No, you're right. It should be Lightbringer Jr.," he went on, unable to hold back his laughter this time.

She laughed with him. "You heard about that."

"Aye. I'm surprised you didn't consider Hawkwing for a husband. Do you think you'll have enough of those?" he asked teasingly.

"How dare you!" she cried out in mock outrage, crossing her arms over her chest. "You lecher, do you think I don't know about your three women? _Three_! All at once! At least I have the decency to attend to only one of my men at a time," she said with a sniff worthy of the Wisdom. "And for the record, I only married _one_ of them."

"And you didn't even invite me to the wedding," Rand said with a pout. It looked incredibly out of place on Moridin's face.

"Well, it looks like we're going to have to organise a second ceremony anyway. Natti and the girls will kill me when they find out that I got married without inviting them."

"Maybe you could hold a double ceremony with Mat and Fortuona," Rand suggested slyly.

"Brilliant idea!" she exclaimed. "Bao will be delighted." She couldn't help another guffaw when she imagined her husband’s reaction. Abruptly, she realised that Rand was holding several bags. "You're leaving?"

He nodded. "Nobody knows I'm…me. Well, very few people do, anyway," he amended.

Neya hugged him again, remembering the last time she'd held this body in the same manner. The last time she’d seen Elan alive. "Take care of yourself, woolhead,” she said fondly.

"You, too. Watch over them all for me.” She hoped that he meant Bao, Mazrim and Jasin, not the world in general.

Rand spared her a last glance and a smile when she finally released him, and then he walked away without another word.

Neya watched him until he disappeared in the distance, then she turned around decisively. Ignoring the pyre, she made her way back to her family.

It was time to head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it sounds like a perfect ending, but there's more. This story will never end. Bwahahaha.


	94. Somebody that I used to know

Min was beginning to doze off when she felt an unexpected tug from the bond she shared with Rand al’Thor. He had just materialised somewhere nearby. She blinked, dispelling the sleepiness from her eyes. She wasn’t sure who’d Travelled with him – Rand could no longer channel – but it was a strange hour to visit anyone, and Min wasn’t sure that she wanted to deal with the sheepherder right this moment.

It had been a long day, though that was hardly unusual. There was so much to do, in the aftermath of Tarmon Gai’don, that sleep had become a luxury Min could rarely afford. This day had been particularly rough, however. Meetings with Cadsuane Melaidhrin had a tendency to leave Min in a state of annoyance and frustration for hours afterwards, especially when Aiel and Sea Folk were involved as well. Not to mention Logain bloody Ablar.

Sometimes Min wondered if Damer Flinn had entirely rid him of the taint. The man had no sense of self-preservation. To his credit, he only wanted what was best for the Black Tower, and for the Asha’man under his care, but Light, if he kept barking at the Amyrlin like that, the old harpy was going to lose patience one day and blast him out of the Pattern, and never mind the strict interdiction to use balefire. They’d already had to adjourn three meetings because of Logain, despite Min’s best attempts at defusing the tension in the Amyrlin’s study. Logain relentlessly questioned the fact that they met there, instead of at the Black Tower. Min wished they would compromise and at least alternate the meeting venues, but Logain was surrounded by female channelers, and even Min’s diplomatic prowess couldn’t change that many stubborn women’s minds. They claimed that they didn’t feel safe at the Black Tower – some of them even had the gall to demand that Logain rename the place, because the current one was an affront to the White Tower.

Had they considered the fact that Logain felt even less safe on their turf? Obviously. Which was why they insisted on keeping it that way, Min knew.

Logain never went alone, but he wasn’t allowed more than four men – plus Min, who was considered neutral, or at least used to be, before she decided to take permanent residence at the Black Tower – to match the number of women present during the meetings. Two Aes Sedai – the Amyrlin and her Keeper, Silviana Brehon – Alise Tenjile, leader of the Kin, a Wise One and a Sea Folk representative. It was hardly fair. Men couldn’t link without a woman. If a fight broke out…

If a fight broke out, Rand’s victory at Shayol Ghul would have been in vain. The world would implode, if the Black Tower and the White couldn’t come to a lasting agreement that also met the demands of the Kin, the Aiel and the Sea Folk.

Min had pled several times to include the Seanchan and the Sharans in the negotiations, but her appeals had been ignored. She _knew_ that she could make it work, if only the others weren’t so bloody mulish about it… Logain included. He was the most pig-headed of the lot.

Min was increasingly certain that this wouldn’t work out; not the negotiations, but Logain leading the Black Tower. She’d thought he would be perfect for the role – he was a born leader, intelligent and fair, and he was as sane as a man could be – but she’d come to realise that he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. He felt compelled to do it, and that made him irascible. It made him utterly uncompromising, and there lay the root of the problem.

No one wanted to compromise, but some people at least seemed to understand that it was necessary. Androl Genhald was their best asset in that regard, but Logain always overruled his ideas, when he felt that they put the Asha’man at a disadvantage.

That was why Min had come up with a radical solution, which, admittedly, she had yet to bounce off Logain. Androl had already agreed, though reluctantly, but it was the right call, and they both knew it.

Androl Genhald had to become the leader of the Black Tower, and Logain had to take a very long vacation.

Whatever he may say on the subject, he wasn’t yet over the traumatic experience of Taim’s repeated attempts at Turning him to the Shadow. Min knew that he barely slept – not first-hand! They weren’t sleeping together or anything – and he had lost weight. He spent most of his free time either practicing his sword forms or brooding in his study. He rarely smiled or laughed.

All in all, he was back at square one, as far as Min was concerned: he behaved exactly as he used to, after they’d escaped from the White Tower, after Elaida’s coup. As though _saidin_ had been taken away from him again. Min suspected that there was indeed something missing, as if the Turning had ripped away a part of Logain’s soul.

She’d done her best to help him, but the man wasn’t exactly cooperative. He insisted that there was nothing wrong with him, that he wasn’t going to be Min’s _project_ – supposedly, she was attracted to broken people and couldn’t resist trying to ‘help’ them, even if they didn’t require help or shoved it in her face.

For people who didn’t share a bed, they certainly argued like a long-married couple.

Min blushed when her bedroom door creaked open. She’d forgotten about Rand.

“Min?” Rand whispered. “It’s just me. I know you’re awake.”

She was in the process of rolling her eyes at the ceiling when light exploded in the room. Min groaned as her eyes fluttered, painfully adjusting to the sudden brightness. He hadn’t channeled, of course; he’d just lit up one of the new glowbulbs Elayne and Aviendha had been working on.

Min sat up and glared at him, but her caustic words caught in her throat. Over the months, she’d completely forgotten that Rand wasn’t _Rand_ any longer.

A tall, dark-haired youth was beaming at her from the other side of the room, his piercing blue eyes glinting with obvious delight. “Min!” He took several steps forward and sat down on the bed. He was leaning in for a kiss when he finally noticed her expression. “Is everything alright?”

Min did her best to smooth her features. She was becoming really good at it, thanks to her time spent around Aes Sedai and Wise Ones – the Kin and Sea Folk rarely bothered to conceal their displeasure. “Hello, stranger,” she said. Well, she’d removed the scowl from her face, but her voice could still use some practice in Aes Sedai impassiveness. She sounded decidedly bitter.

The body who had once belonged to the Forsaken Moridin – and to some poor, random dead lad before that – appeared taken aback by the coldness in her tone. “Min, I’m sorry. I know it’s been a while…” He trailed off, fidgeting nervously.

“I figured you wouldn’t visit often.” But _months_? Even if he couldn’t Travel on his own, there were channelers available pretty much everywhere nowadays. He could be with her in an instant, if he so desired. Apparently, he did not.

Min hesitated. There was no good time to bring this up, but who knew when Rand would next deign to make an appearance? She refrained from groaning. She wished she’d had more time to rehearse this conversation.

“Rand… We need to talk.” Min almost laughed at the _uh-oh_ look on his borrowed face, but thought it best to keep her countenance. “First off… I suppose congratulations are in order.” Rand frowned quizzically. “The twins? Elayne’s children? _Your_ children?” This time she couldn’t help a small smirk when he blushed.

“Oh. Um, thanks. I…I was just in Caemlyn, in fact. Aviendha brought me here. The babies are…”

Min interrupted his senseless rambling. “I know, you woolhead. I’ve seen them already. Aviendha came to deliver the good news, and we Travelled to the palace together. They’re very…” She huffed in frustration. Gawyn and Tigraine were new-born babes. Whatever anyone said, they didn’t look _cute_. They were tiny, and noisy – and smelly, on occasion – and Min couldn’t bring herself to find them adorable. And Elayne claimed that they looked just like Rand – well, ginger Rand, not cleft-chin Rand. The babies looked like prunes, end of the story. The pregnancy must have addled Elayne’s brains. “…healthy,” she finished lamely. Well, they were, judging by how loudly they could scream. Good lungs on them both.

Rand grinned proudly. “They’re perfect.”

Min made an effort not to roll her eyes. “Anyway. I assume you’ll be helping Elayne…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Rand…” she chided him.

“Aviendha is with her,” he muttered.

“Avi is with child, woolhead. She will need rest. She’s expecting _quadruplets_.” He had the grace to look abashed.

“I… I’ll help however and whenever I can.”

“I certainly hope so.” She absently brushed her sleeves, where she used to keep her knives concealed. “My point is, you’re going to be quite busy for a while,” she went on. “And I have no interest in babies, so I thought I’d travel a bit.” She did her best to look nonchalant and refrained from biting her lower lip.

“Oh. Right.” He was clearly disappointed. What had he expected? She hadn’t seen him in months, had not even received one single message from him. Saviour of the world or not, Min wouldn’t wait on the whims of Rand bloody al’Thor. She had no idea how long he would live, now that he couldn’t channel any longer, but he was still the Dragon Reborn, after all, and she had a feeling that his _ta’veren_ -ness might keep him alive longer than most people. Min, however, had a comparatively very short lifespan, and she fully intended to make the most of it.

“Where will you go?” Rand asked. “Seanchan?”

Min stared at him. Was he still mad? “Why in the Pit of Doom would I visit Seanchan, of all places?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said. “I just thought…”

“I’m going to Shara,” she said bluntly.

Um, was she? She had given the idea little consideration, in truth. Light, she hadn’t even brought it up with Logain yet! He would never agree to retire to Shara while he recuperated from his ordeals. That was where Taim was! Blood and ashes, she was tired.

Rand opened his mouth, found nothing to say, closed it again. Min rummaged her rusty brain for a good reason to visit the Forsaken Lands – as everyone had tactfully renamed them. “They…need help negotiating with the West. You must have heard how the last international meeting went.” Min had been present, though she hadn’t participated. She’d only been accompanying Logain – keeping an eye on him, really.

Actually, this was perfectly reasonable. Demandred and Neya wanted to open Shara for business and trade, and to make Travelling back and forth available to all, but most western rulers were being difficult about it. They wanted nothing to do with the former Forsaken. They should be ostracised and shunned forever. Really, it was to be expected, though regrettable all the same.

The king and queen of Shara also planned on opening a school for channelers – male and female alike – and that was probably the rub. Demandred had lost a good portion of his army during the Last Battle, and that was fine with everyone. The fact that he was actively recruiting for replacements wasn’t, even if he claimed that he wanted to make proper Aes Sedai, not warriors.

The fact that he called them ‘proper’ Aes Sedai wasn’t helping.

In any case, they could probably use Min’s help. They weren’t going to get assistance from anyone else in the Westlands, that was for sure.

As for Logain… Well, come to think of it, maybe it’ll do him good to talk it out with Taim. Both men had been Healed; they were both sane and, hopefully, mature enough to discuss without blasting each other to bits. Though in truth, Logain was more worrisome in that regard than Taim. Seeing the Saldaean now, it was difficult to believe that he’d done all the horrible things that Logain accused him of. Taim looked as tame as any of the dogs here at the Black Tower. Light, he was raising _children._ Min wasn’t sure that she would trust grumpy Logain around children.

Rand was nodding slowly. “If you think you should help them, then go ahead.” He hesitated. “Will Logain be alright without you?”

“Logain will be coming with me,” she asserted. He _would_ come, even if Min had to drag him all the way there on foot.

Rand’s face fell. “I…see.”

“I’m sorry.” She had stalled long enough. “Logain and I… Rand, I’ve waited _months_ for you to show up.” She raised her hands when he tried to speak. “We didn’t do anything, I swear.” Rand would have known, if they had, but it didn’t hurt to say it aloud. “I wanted to talk to you first. With the bond…” Min had suffered through it enough times to know that she didn’t want Rand to feel it, even if he figured out how to mask the bond. Even masked, he would still _know_. “We… I care for him. Very much. And I think he feels the same way about me.”

There. She’d said it. And never mind that she’d never said it to _Logain_ before.

They’d never really discussed it. Logain had no idea that Rand was alive, let alone that Min was bonded with him. He’d made an attempt at courting her, after she’d decided to stay at the Black Tower, but she’d had to decline. Her official reason had been that she was still in mourning, and Logain had not insisted. In fact, he had never mentioned it again.

But she wanted to be with him. She’d dismissed the idea at first – Logain was too unstable, Rand trusted her, there was simply too much on her plate besides – but after spending so much time here, at the Black Tower, she’d come to feel protective of Logain. She worried about him, and she yearned to help him, to comfort him, in any way she could, even if he wouldn’t allow it.

The man could be bloody stubborn, but Min had out-stubborned more grizzled woolheads than him.

If Rand agreed to release her bond – well, if _Elayne_ agreed – Min would be free to be with Logain. She wouldn’t have to hold back.

She’d anticipated that this would be an excruciating conversation, but nothing had prepared her for Rand’s look of utter despair. “I…” He had to pause to clear his throat. “I understand.” His tone clearly indicated that he didn’t, not really.

“I’m sure you won’t even have time to think about me,” Min said with false cheerfulness. “The twins, Avi’s upcoming horde of red-haired warriors… Surely you’ll have your hands full.”

She could read in his eyes that he’d counted on Min to provide a welcome break amongst the chaos that he’d himself created, but she wouldn’t relent. He was reaping the seeds he’d sowed – quite literally. “I’ll always be there for you, Rand. I’ll be there for Elayne and Aviendha, too. For the children. But I need to be my own person again. Being with you three… I felt like I never really belonged. Elayne and Avi are sisters, and I love them both dearly, but the way they connect, I never had that with either of them, and I never will.”

“I thought _we_ connected,” Rand said wistfully.

“We did. But I can’t…” She sought the words to properly define it for him. “I had you for myself for a long time, and it was nice, but now you’re divided again. You’ll never be _mine_. We’ll always have to share, and I don’t think I can do that. I can’t live like that, knowing that Elayne and Aviendha may live as long as you, but that I’ll be long forgotten by the time you have great-grandchildren.”

“Min, I could never forget you! And…and anyway, Logain is a powerful channeler. The problem remains…”

“Logain will have eyes only for me. I know it must sound selfish, but I just… I want to be someone’s entire focus. I want Logain to look at me like he’s never looked at anyone else before, and never will. I want him to love _me_ , and no one else.”

“I…” Rand shook his head, then placed his hand over Min’s. “I love you more than you could possibly imagine.”

“As much as you love Elayne and Avi,” Min put in.

“Yes. But-”

She removed her hand and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you won’t lack for love and happiness, sheepherder. Can’t you wish the same for me?”

* * *

There was a sharp knock on the door. Logain hadn’t even bothered to lie down in bed. He usually spent the night in his chair, sometimes falling into a fitful sleep out of sheer exhaustion, sometimes staring at the fireplace for hours, his mind blank, until the sun rose and Logain felt satisfied that no one would comment on the fact that he was already up and about. The Black Tower woke up early.

He stood and went to open the door, hoping that it would be…

“Min,” he greeted her. He was glad to see her, as always. He knew he should have smiled, but smiling did no longer come naturally to him.

“May I?” The words weren’t yet out of her mouth that she was already marching inside.

Logain’s lips twitched almost reflexively as he moved aside to let her pass. “What brings you here on this…um, dark, rainy night?”

She sat down in his chair as though she owned it, then gave him a very serious look. His ghostly smile vanished instantly. “What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.

Min took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”


	95. Madness? This is Shara!

The girls were finally asleep. Atal closed the book he’d been reading to them – _Wild Tales_ – and used his metallic hand to cover his mouth as he yawned.

He’d barely had time to adjust to having only one hand that Bao, Taim and Neya were already working on some…contraption to replace the one he’d lost. It was a _ter’angreal_ , and it was just as functional as his right hand. In the Age of Legends, these devices were called prostheses.

He exited the room without making a sound. The baby was crying in the distance, but that was not his problem, not tonight. Tonight, she was her father’s responsibility. And Natael’s, Atal supposed, though he doubted that the bard often got up in the middle of the night to soothe her.

He opened the door to his bedroom quietly. Trygg was snoring softly, to Atal’s relief. Trygg was often plagued by migraines and had trouble sleeping since he’d recovered from his nearly-fatal brain injury. No amount of Healing had been able to help with the migraines, to Neya’s greatest frustration.

They hadn’t seen each other all day. Atal had been away from the palace, working on the plans of the university with Bao. The king had named Atal responsible for the project, to the latter’s surprise. Bao claimed that he had a head for architectural design.

And then Neya had practically begged him to tuck the girls in. The meeting with the Westland leaders had not gone well, as usual, and she and Bao had much to discuss. Atal had readily agreed; he didn’t get to spend much time with the children, now that Bao had decided that everyone had to participate in the making of his vision for the new Shara. Atal couldn’t blame him. Initially, it was going to be Taim, Natael, Neya and Bao himself; now Trygg and Atal had taken up residence in the palace, and Logain had just moved in with Min Farshaw. Loial the Ogier and his wife Erith were visiting – a visit that could last a while, apparently. Loial was working on a book and wanted to hear everyone’s insights about their participation in the Last Battle and the events that had led to it. He was incredibly excitable, for an Ogier. He claimed that it was a remarkable opportunity, to be able to discuss with several Forsaken and another _ta’veren,_ whose existence he had not even been aware of. It would make his book so much more comprehensive to have the opinions of people who had followed the Dark One for so long.

In any case, the palace was getting a bit crowded, but they were working on that. Soon there would be cities blooming up in every corner of the land, and everyone would have its own to administer.

Taim would be in charge of the university, which would in fact be a small city in itself, while Natael would, predictably, manage the conservatory. Atal was going to design every single building, if Bao had his way, and Trygg would overlook their construction. Miss Farshaw had offered her diplomatic skills in the negotiations to come, and Logain, though he claimed to be here to rest, had already agreed to go on recruiting trips across the land to gather all the male channelers he could find. The man wouldn’t stay idle even if Farshaw sat on him, Atal suspected.

It was a pleasant life. It was not the one Atal had expected, when he’d left his native village a year and a half ago, to become a part of the Dragon Reborn’s armies, but it was the one he’d come to yearn for, after his taxing experience at the Black Tower, and after surviving Tarmon Gai’don.

Shara had become home, and the only place where Atal had ever felt safe.

* * *

"Did you talk to Taim?" Bao asked after they were done discussing the meeting. They could only agree that it had not gone well. It was partially his fault, he admitted, but in his defence, the western representatives were being impossible. They were too demanding, not trusting enough, and utterly unwilling to compromise. Even Min Farshaw had had a difficult time keeping her cool.

The problem was easily summarised: they had too few allies, and too many enemies. Bao could only hope that seeing Miss Farshaw on the Sharan side of the negotiating table would slowly lead the West to realise that they, too, could become a part of the bigger picture, if they only consented to be reasonable, instead of senselessly terrified. Bao had no idea what they were afraid of; he had no army to speak of, and no desire to invade them, in any case. Holding that much land would be impossible; Shara was nearly as large as the Western Lands put together, especially now that the Blight had receded and almost entirely disappeared.

But of course, that, too, was a matter of dispute: to whom did these long-forsaken lands belong? Bao was of a mind to grant the western portions to the Borderlanders, to be shared evenly among their nations, and to keep the area that bordered Shara to Shara itself. It only made sense, but few saw it that way. It did not help that Seanchan scouts had been observed repeatedly flying over these regions. Did they intend to seize the former Blight for their Empress? Cauthon had made no comment on the subject, save for several muttered curses. Fortuona herself, of course, never attended these meetings.

They were at an impasse and, if Bao interpreted Neya’s body language correctly – she was biting her lower lip and refused to meet his eyes – this _other_ situation may prove equally complicated.

"Yes, I did." Neya took a deep breath. "Mazrim doesn't want to…ah…do what you suggested." It still amazed him, how they eluded the word. "Well, it's not that he doesn't _want_ to," she amended. "He's just not…" She trailed off, frowning in concentration. "I don't know how to explain it. I guess it's not what he… _needs_ the most. Besides, he doesn't want to share." As if Taim hadn't repeated that at least a hundred times since they'd all settled in Shara. “And, well, there’s Jasin to consider.” Knowing Nessosin, Bao did not think he would care, but the failed musician had changed, since the…incident. "Mazrim would like to bond me again, though."

"Bond you? Why on earth would he want to do that?" It did not make any sense. If anything, it would make it worse for Taim – for everyone, really.

Neya shook her head uncertainly. "He claims that he knows how to mask it whenever he wants to, as he did when I was here with you before, and he'll explain how to do it in return. He's just…I think he finds it comforting. It's hard to explain if you've never been bonded before."

"Do you feel as he does? Do _you_ want to bond him?"

"Yes, I do," she replied without hesitation. "But I told him I would talk to you first. I have a feeling that you won't agree to it as easily as to…the other thing."

"You are correct in that regard," Bao told her coolly. Of course he did not like the idea of Taim intruding on her thoughts at all times. He had felt that offering to allow them to have sex whenever they wanted was generous enough. This was something else entirely; being bonded was much more intimate.

Neya sighed. "I thought so. I _told_ him so. We just don't have the same conceptions of the matter at all, you see. Jay thinks like you, apparently. It seems like being physical didn't mean much in the Age of Legends. It was almost like a pastime, the way you two make it sound. It's not like that for us. It's…almost insulting, really, the way you offer to share me like that. Not that you meant to be insulting," she added hastily. Of course he had not! "But you must try to put yourself in his shoes. What if the situation was reversed? How would you feel if I was married to Mazrim and he suggested to let you…ah…well, you know…with me?"

Bao considered it for a moment. When she put it like that… "I would offer to duel him," he replied truthfully. If it was left to him, the problem would be solved quickly. Let them both fight over Neya; it was that simple. But she would not let that happen, he knew very well. She cared too much for the Saldaean, and for Bao. Not that Bao exposed himself to any risk by duelling with the younger man, but Neya would never forgive him if he killed Taim, no matter how lawfully.

"Yes, well, he can barely wield a sword without cutting off his own arm. And even if he did…" She trailed off again.

"I know." Neya made it sound as if she cared as much for Taim as she did for Bao. How could that be? The way she cared about him alone appeared to be enough to encompass an entire nation. And she _did_ have an entire nation to care for, not to mention three children.

"Do _you_ want to bond me?" she asked suddenly.

Bao stared at her in surprise. He had never given that possibility a thought, as a matter of fact. That was probably a terrible idea. He had no trouble sharing his thoughts with her, or his feelings, to an extent, but to have her intruding his mind at all times… "No," he murmured. "I don't think I do."

"As I suspected. Then why is it a problem for me to bond Mazrim?" She sat down on the bed. "I won't do it if you don't want me too," she told him before he had a chance to answer. "I just… I told him that maybe it would be better for him to leave the palace altogether, if he didn't agree to your proposal, that it would be easier for everyone, but if I'm being honest, I would hate for him to go away. The bond…" She hesitated, clearly searching for the right words. "We only had a few days to enjoy it fully, before you showed up at the Black Tower, because after that he masked it and it might as well not have been there at all, at least for me, but I still feel the lack of it. It's like having a phantom limb. I don't know how to put it better than that. And to have him so near, without actually _feeling_ him… It's disturbing. I feel…incomplete. I think it's even worse for him. Cleansing his mind from the taint, it left him vulnerable. He's got all these emotions to deal with, all at the same time… It’s overwhelming. The bond could help." She looked up at Bao. She would never do anything he did not agree with, but he could see how much it troubled her, how much she wanted this.

"Bond me," he said. Neya frowned, obviously confused. "Just for a moment," he clarified. He had to see for himself, before he made up his mind. If she loved Taim more than she cared about Bao, he couldn't possibly allow–

It caught him off guard. He felt her embrace the Source, of course, but… He stared at her in open astonishment, mouth slightly agape. Thankfully, her eyes were closed. She looked like she was trying to pick his emotions apart, muttering to herself.

Bao knew that his wife was a caring person. He knew how she felt about Taim, about the girls, even about Nessosin, for whatever strange reason. But how many hearts did she have? She couldn't possibly contain all that in only one. How she even managed to think amidst that chaos was beyond him. And he had been worried that she might love Taim more than she loved him. It seemed ridiculous in hindsight.

"You're jealous," she said with a smug grin, eyes still closed. Of course he was. Why was she so amazed by that? Had he not made it abundantly clear that he cared for her? Did she think that he enjoyed having to share her with another man, physically or emotionally? She was frowning now, and her grin vanished abruptly as she opened her eyes to look at him. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know that you love me. It's just odd to feel it first-hand like that. You're not very…demonstrative." She stood and walked up to him. "Your mind… It's incredible. Every emotion is neatly categorised and put away. It's so different from Mazrim's."

"I'm certainly glad to know that," he told her dryly. "You can remove it now," he added, perhaps a little too sharply.

He felt a twinge of disappointment through the bond, but it was gone a second later. Neya was gone, leaving him blissfully alone with his own thoughts. That had to be one of the most bizarre things he had ever experienced. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked curiously.

Bao considered for a minute. "You may bond Taim if you wish. But _you_ will bond him. Not the other way around." Just in case she changed her mind, and Taim refused to let her go. Bao would not put it past the Saldaean.

Initially, Bao had assumed that Neya had attracted so many men because of her _ta’veren_ nature. Now, however, he knew that she was not subject to the whims of the Pattern any longer. She had fulfilled her role in the prophecies. She was just Neya.

And yet Bao still loved her. Taim still cared for her more than he should, knowing that she was married – and that he was himself involved with someone else. Though perhaps Nessosin did not qualify as proper relationship material. At least Nessosin had not professed his undying love for Neya, nor had any of their uninvited guests. That would have been the icing on the cake.

The Musician seemed oddly invested in his strange relationship with Taim. They bickered most of the time, but they’d been sharing a room for most of their time here. They watched over the children together. They Travelled and worked together. Then again, Nessosin could not Travel on his own. Just as Bao had predicted, Neya had not been able to Heal him – though not for lack of effort on her part. She had involved Nynaeve al’Meara and Damer Flinn, as well as several other Sharan Healers, but with no result thus far. Neya would not give up until she found a satisfactory solution, however, Bao knew that for certain.

In any case, Taim was the father of Neya’s child. Karys and Ilawen considered him their father just as much as they did Nessosin and Bao himself. Whatever happened, he would always be part of their lives, one way or another. Sending him away would cause more harm than good.

All in all, Bao supposed that they would have to take their new life one problem at a time. They had proven over the past few months that they could make it work and, come what may, they would continue to do so.

* * *

Neya knocked softly on Mazrim’s door. To her surprise, it was Jasin who opened it. He was carrying Yasmin. “You do realise that it’s the middle of the night, yes?” he said in a low voice. The baby babbled happily in response. “I’ve only just managed to make it stop howling, so please don’t make it start again.”

“Her, not it,” Neya corrected him automatically, though she knew that he was doing it on purpose to annoy her. She hesitated. “I had to talk to Mazrim, but I suppose we should-”

Jasin shook his head. “We’ve already discussed it between ourselves,” he broke in. “Obviously.”

“Oh.” Well, it made sense. Of course Mazrim would tell his lover all about it. “And…”

He sighed. “And I expected nothing else. I can’t believe it took you so long, in truth. He’s clearly agonising that you’re not in his head. For some reason.”

“So…you’re not mad? It doesn’t bother you? Wouldn’t you rather… Jay, don’t _you_ want to bond him?”

“Peace, are you insane? My mind is a private area. Honestly, I don’t know how you two endure it. But it’s your problem, I suppose.” He started to shrug, then remembered he was carrying Yasmin. “Do you want me to wake him so you can tell him the good news? Well, I assume that Bao agreed, anyway, otherwise you wouldn’t have rushed here at this unconscionable hour.”

“He agreed, yes.” She still couldn’t believe it, but convincing Bao had been surprisingly easy. She wondered what he’d felt when she’d bonded him, what had changed his mind. “But it can wait. I just… I heard the baby crying, so I assumed…”

“That Mazrim would be the one up and about,” he finished for her. Neya nodded abashedly. “Well, believe it or not, but we share in our chores. I mean, duties.” He smirked. “Anyway. Guess it’ll have to wait until morning, because if this one didn’t wake him, nothing will.”

Neya grinned. “Look at you, acting all responsible. Mazrim is a good influence on you.”

“I like to think that I’m a good influence on _him_ , actually.”

“You’re good for each other, let’s just leave it at that.” She yawned. “Alright. I’ll see you both in the morning, then.” She kissed Yasmin’s forehead. The baby had fallen asleep. “Night, my love.”

“You never called _me_ that,” Jasin said with a pout.

“Mazrim doesn’t call you that?” she asked teasingly.

He snorted. “I’m lucky when he talks to me at all.” There was an inaudible murmur from inside the room. Jasin glanced over his shoulder. “Nope, still asleep, the lucky bastard.”

“You all get some rest, alright?” Neya murmured. Jasin nodded and closed the door silently.

* * *

Mazrim braced himself when he felt Neya embrace the Source.

It wasn’t like the first time. It wasn’t as sudden, as violent. Perhaps because Neya was the one weaving the bond. Perhaps because she was using the new version of the bond, the one that didn’t allow for Compulsion. Nynaeve Sedai had been the one to demonstrate the weave, with her husband for a test subject.

It was exactly what Mazrim needed. It was comforting. It sent a flood of pure relief down his spine, Neya’s love illuminating his partially mended soul.

It felt like being whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before the epilogue. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story.


	96. Epilogue

"Nate, can you hold the baby while I braid Ila's hair?" Mazrim asked with some irritation. The bloody man was drinking chilled wine on the balcony, looking as unconcerned as ever.

"Why me?" He was wearing a golden silk shirt with so much lace at the cuffs that Mazrim wondered how he even managed to lift his goblet.

"Would you rather braid her hair?" Mazrim countered wryly.

"I'll take her," Karys offered.

Mazrim handed her Yasmin and started working on her sister's hair. "Let's just remove the crown for a moment, shall we?" he told Ilawen.

She took off the extravagant tiara and held it reverently. "Make the braids tight!" she shouted.

"Aye, princess, but it would be easier if you stopped tossing your head around.”

She stood still for a few seconds. "Do you think Uncle Knotai will let us play with the  _lopar_?"

Natael snorted. "Are we still calling him that?"

"Queen's orders," Mazrim replied with a grin. To Ilawen, he said, "I don't think you're supposed to play with the…beast." He had been about to say 'monster'. The  _lopar_  was impressive, and not in a good way.

There was a knock on the door. "Can you at least open the door?" he asked Nate when no one reacted. The other man complied, but not without sighing. Peace! He was worse than the girls, sometimes.

It was Bao, looking regal in his black and gold outfit. He frowned when he saw that Natael was wearing gold, too, to Mazrim's amusement.

"Is everyone prepared to leave?" the King asked. “The others are waiting for us.” The others being Min, Logain, Atal and Trygg. Well, they didn’t have three children to dress and keep under control; of course they’d be ready quickly.

"Almost," Mazrim said. Ilawen was beginning to fidget again.

"Neya could have done that," Bao stated.

"But Mazrim does it better. He had a lot of practice because he was raised in a brothel," Ilawen said cheerfully. Bao narrowed his eyes slightly. "It's a place where ladies trade favours for money," she recited.

"Is it really?" Bao said, glaring at Mazrim.

He shrugged. "I wouldn't have had to disclose so much information if  _someone_  hadn't blurted out the word without thinking." Nate stuck out his tongue at him.

"I saw that," Neya said as she walked in. She looked dazzling, as always, wearing a colourful blouse over white trousers. Her crown, tastefully inlaid with tiny gems, scintillated in her braided hair. She had regained her former figure after giving birth over a year ago but, to be fair, she had looked just as beautiful when she was nearing term as she did now. She must have caught most of that from the bond, because she gave him a bright smile.

Natael cocked his head toward Mazrim. "He started it."

Neya chuckled softly, turning to Bao. "In retrospect, perhaps you were right. We shouldn't have adopted four children at once," she told him ruefully.

Bao shook his head. "Well, it's too late now, they've become attached to each other. It would be cruel to separate them," he said with a twitch of his mouth. He was getting better at this, although Mazrim still had to see him laugh properly. At least he seemed to have endorsed contractions in his speech.

There was a loud crash as Lews knocked over the wine pitcher. The girls giggled and Ilawen set to chase the cursed monkey around the room, half her braid coming undone as she ran. Mazrim was certain that the monkey was misbehaving on purpose, but Nate insisted that they keep the fiend anyway. It was fated, he claimed. Min had foreseen it.

Mazrim wasn't sure who had first come up with the unlikely pet's name, but it was one of the rare things that made Bao genuinely smile.

Naturally, the noise woke up the baby. It was Bao who took her from Karys; the man seemed to have a soothing effect on her.

Mazrim had expected Neya to name the baby after the late Amyrlin, or perhaps after her own late mother. Instead, they’d named her after Mazrim's mother, and so was born Yasmin. Thankfully, Sharans didn't bother with last names, so they didn't have to go through the ordeal of picking out one for her. That would have been an epic argument. As usual, Yasmin's cries receded after a few moments spent in Bao’s arms.

The King looked at them all in turn. "Shall we?"

* * *

The rebuilding of the Court of the Nine Moons was still underway – Fortuona wanted it to be even more grandiose than the original building – but even so, the place was larger than Neya had imagined. Light, this chamber alone was bigger than the entire East Wing of their Sharan palace! Not that she cared, of course. If Tuon had delusions of grandeur, that was her problem.

There were many guests, as was to be expected, most of them unknown to Neya. They looked like Seanchan nobles – the Blood, as they were called. What a jolly name.

Fortuona herself was sitting on the Crystal Throne, looking more regal than Neya could ever hope to appear. Mat was nowhere in sight, nor was Neya's nephew. Which was odd, since everyone was gathered here to welcome him into the world – by giving him a name, a year after his birth. Neya had long ago given up on trying to make sense of Seanchan traditions.

She searched around for faces she recognised and spotted Loial right away. The Ogier was talking animatedly to Perrin, Neya realised. She made her way toward them, leaving her family to fend for themselves.

Perrin gave her a crushing hug. Light, but his beard was getting longer and bushier every time they met. Was he trying to turn it into a bird's nest? She wondered what Faile thought about it. Then again, knowing the woman, it might have been her idea from the beginning. "Lord Goldeneyes," Neya said when he released her.

"Your Highness," he countered teasingly.

"I told you, we don't use titles in Shara," she scolded him amiably. "Loial," she went on, turning to the Ogier, "it's good to see you again." Thankfully, he didn't try to imitate Perrin. They bowed to each other instead. Loial had spent quite a bit of time in Shara the previous year, collecting material for his book. He had interviewed Bao, Mazrim, Jasin, Logain, Atal…and even Neya herself, for some reason. But he had really spent most of his days – and nights – in the Library. He had been a charming guest, and Neya had become good friends with his wife, Erith. They had been their only guests so far, besides Neya's family. Logain and Min, as well as Atal and Trygg, were no longer considered guests, but rather permanent citizens. "How fares Erith?"

"She is well, thank you. She passes along her greetings, but she was too occupied to join us, I'm sorry to say," Loial said in that booming voice of his. "The rebuilding is monopolising most of her time. Well, most of everyone's time, in reality," he amended. "I couldn't miss the opportunity to visit Seandar, however. We are unlikely to be invited very often. Did you know that their library is said to rival even that of the White Tower?" the Ogier told her with not a little awe.

"I did not know that," Neya replied truthfully. She turned back to Perrin. "How's the overhaul in the Two Rivers?"

"It's going well. Very well, in fact. You wouldn't believe the number of people who decided to stop by on their way home to pay their respects to the Dragon Reborn's homestead. They all want to give a hand when they arrive, and some never leave afterwards," he explained. "Thank you again for providing all that material on such short notice," he added.

"Of course," she told him dismissively. As discussed before the Last Battle, Bao had conceived, with Mazrim and Jasin's help, a network of gateway platforms located in all of Shara, to improve access to the land's resources and to allow all of its citizens to reach Shara's main cities. They planned to expand the system to the Westlands, but it would be some time before the nations' leaders accepted any help from Shara and its rulers. Perrin hadn't minded, however. "I hope Faile is well?"

"She's fine. She's busy overseeing…well, everything, in Saldaea." Yes, she would be. She was a control freak if Neya had ever met one, and she'd known several indeed, Nynaeve foremost among them.

Speaking of the former Wisdom, Neya spotted her and Lan a few paces away, discussing with a rather short man, a Cairhienin by the looks of him. She excused herself and joined them. "Hail, Lightbringer," the Malkieri King greeted her, bowing his head.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Dai Shan," she replied with mock formality. "Aes Sedai," she said to Nynaeve, which earned her a scowl. She turned to the other man. "I'm Neya," she said simply, extending a hand.

The man smiled as he shook her hand. "Talmanes Delovinde," he introduced himself. "At your service, Your Highness."

"You're Talmanes? _The_ Talmanes?” He nodded uncertainly. “It's good to finally meet you. Knotai rarely stops talking about you and all the adventures you two had. He speaks highly of you.”

Talmanes chuckled. "Prince Knotai is too kind," he said. "Have you seen him, by the way?"

"Ah, there you are," Knotai called out, right on cue. "Come with me," he commanded Neya. He nodded to Talmanes, who raised his goblet in acknowledgment. "Come on," he said again, more urgently.

"What's going on?" Neya asked curiously. "Please tell me you haven't lost your son already."

He glared at her. "Blood and ashes! Why does everyone keep saying that?" he muttered sourly. "I know where he is, burn you. What I  _don't_  know," he went on, "is how to put that flaming ridiculous  _thing_ he's supposed to be wearing for the bloody ceremony." They walked for a good five minutes before reaching their destination. No one was there, except for the baby in his crib. "Look at  _that_!" Mat grumbled, waving an oddly-shaped piece of cloth in front of her nose. Neya had to admit that it didn't look like something with which any sane person would dress an infant. The Seanchan were truly bizarre.

"Does he really have to wear it?"

"Well, it depends. Do you want me to suffer a fatal accident sometime in the next few days?" he asked sarcastically – and rhetorically, Neya assumed. "Yes, he has to bloody wear it. She insisted." There was no need to specify who 'she' was.

"Don't you have servants to help with these things?" Neya didn't have servants to dress her children, let alone herself, but this seemed like a case where an experienced maid would come in handy.

"It's…complicated," Mat replied with a tremendous sigh. Most likely, he had done something that required some form of punishment from Tuon. "Come on, we can do this," he whispered, more to himself than to Neya. They did manage, eventually, although she wasn't certain that the poor child would ever come out of the contraption. "Alright, let's go. We're already late."

The guest of honour having finally been introduced to the assembled crowd, the ceremony could begin.

She joined her family and they all sat with Neya’s parents and sisters on the benches. Everyone got along quite well, and they saw each other reasonably often, all the more since the wedding – her second wedding – in the Two Rivers, five months ago. She had loved the first ceremony, of course, the one Mintel had performed in Shara what seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had been nice to have Abell lead her to the altar, with Perrin speaking the binding words and her whole family being gathered at the same time. Bao had been oddly compliant when she'd announced that she wanted to get married again, in front of a bunch of people he'd never met. The girls had been delighted, naturally, both her sisters and her daughters. Even Mazrim had appeared to enjoy himself, and Jasin had magnanimously agreed to play the harp. Knotai had been allowed to attend, although Tuon had made no appearance – thankfully. A surprising number of people had shown up for the event, Lan and Nynaeve among them, as well as Min, Logain, Atal ,Trygg, and some of the Asha'man Neya knew from the early days of the Black Tower. Even Moiraine and her husband, Thom Merrilin, had attended the ceremony. The old gleeman had provided entertainment without being asked, to Neya's delight and that of her guests.

On the bench, head resting against Mazrim’s arm, Ilawen had fallen asleep. There was a considerable time difference between home and Seanchan – to the Sharans, it would be the middle of the night. Finally, the ceremony came to an end. The guests were released and offered an assortment of Seanchan delicacies that Neya was convinced Tuon had carefully selected to make sure that they wouldn't outstay their welcome in Seandar. The Sharans had some bizarre treats to offer, to be sure, but those were not just peculiar; Neya wondered if they were even edible. And the jellied monkey's brains were certainly there just to annoy her in particular.

She had been afraid that Bao and the others would be shunned out today – it was incredible enough that they'd been invited; she probably had her brother to thank for that – but Karys was talking to Loial animatedly, Bao was discussing with Moiraine and Thom, and Mazrim and Jasin were in conversation with Lan and Perrin. Ilawen was now asleep on the  _lopar_ , which lay immobile at the foot of the throne like a hairless carpet. Knotai had assured Neya that the animal wouldn't hurt a fly. Not unless Tuon ordered it to, anyway. That was only partially reassuring.

Knotai joined her a moment later, cradling Havran. Neya wasn't sure what to think of the name and, judging from her brother's scowl, neither was he. It simply meant 'raven' in the Old Tongue. "Who would have thought someone so adorable could be related to you?" Neya said teasingly.

"Well, I only provided half the material.”

Thinking about the baby, she started suddenly. "Where's Yasmin?" she asked, looking around the room. She hadn't been with the men.

"Don't worry, I've got her," someone called from behind. Neya turned to find Natti holding her granddaughter. "She really looks just like you, dear."

"Poor thing," Knotai said with a smirk. Neya punched his arm.

Natti chuckled. “This, at least, will never change.”

Abell joined them a moment later. “We should go, love,” he told his wife. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

Natti nodded and handed Yasmin over to Neya. “You’ll come and visit soon? I must see my grandchildren more often. _All_ of them,” she added sternly, addressing Mat.

Abell and Natti had decided to build an orphanage in the Two Rivers, with Perrin and Elayne Trakand’s approval, and it was taking up most of their time.

Even a year and a half after the Light’s victory, there was much to do. They had won the battle, but rebuilding would take years, if not decades, even if the western leaders allowed Shara to assist by providing material and workforce. Countless families had been broken, children had been orphaned, entire villages had been burned down to the ground; to the best of their estimation, the world's population had been reduced by at least a fifth since Rand had proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn.

But they were alive. They had survived Tarmon Gai'don _._  They had withstood the Shadow and the Dark One itself had been shut out. They would endure, as people did since time immemorial, and from their ordeal they would arise, stronger than ever.

* * *

Neya opened her eyes, aware that she was lying in a bed that was not the one she shared with her husband; instead, she found herself in the bed in which she had spent so much time huddling after Elan had brought her in this strange little room in the middle of the ocean. What an odd place to dream herself in, after so long.

She had come back here only once – in the waking world – since Elan had died, to retrieve his books. She had been afraid that Lanfear might have done away with them, or destroyed the place altogether, but it seemed that the woman had had other things on her mind at the time and couldn't be bothered. There had been no  _ter'angreal_ , no object of Power of any kind for her to use, and the Forsaken had apparently dismissed the rest as worthless.

Neya walked to the other room and suffered a small shock. It was very different from what she remembered. All the books seemed to be back on their shelves, and they looked oddly new, as if someone had just bound them in leather. The whole place appeared changed. It was more…welcoming, somehow. She realised that there were several windows overlooking the sea and brightening the room. The walls were blue to match the colour of the cloudless sky outside.

How peculiar. It made sense for her to conjure the place in her dreams, since she had spent so much time here, but why did everything look different?

Then Neya understood why. It wasn't her doing at all.

There was a man in the armchair, near the fireplace.

"Hello, pet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a lot longer than I’d planned. And…there’s more.
> 
> I’m going to create a Lightbringer series and add two other works to it. One will be a small series of the aforementioned interviews that Loial did when he was in Shara, and the other will be an AoL story about Jolan (Joar and Elan). The latter will be a long one-shot, I think.
> 
> Right now I’m working on a Mazmodean multi-chaptered fic, but it’s nowhere near completion, so while I write that I’ll post a Harry Potter story that’s already finished.
> 
> Feel free to comment or contact me for questions or anything else. In case it wasn't obvious, English is not my native language, so I apologise for spelling/grammar mistakes. If something’s horrifyingly incorrect please let me know.


End file.
